


Overruled By Fate

by EllaStorm



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Will (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bi Will Shakespeare, Cigarettes, Drama, Drugs, Enemies to Lovers, Failed Oneshot, Fluff, Kit Marlowe Is a Jerk with A Heart of Gold, M/M, Modern Era, Smut, Will Shakespeare Is a Drama Queen, the usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-10-31 14:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17851199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Will Shakespeare doesn’t hate people. He’s a pacifist, for God’s sake! And, really, there are so many pompous prats at Cambridge University he could hate, that he’d run the risk of exhausting himself, if he genuinely tried to.Of course, there is always an exception to the rule.Will’ exception is Christopher Marlowe. Arrogant, admired, well-dressed, well-to-do, and a poet in the making, Will hates him with the fire of a thousand suns - figuratively speaking, of course. (And then, he also kind of wants to kiss him. Which makes things a bit more complicated than need be.)





	1. A Registry of Future Vices

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a oneshot. It isn’t any more, because I really can’t seem to leave these guys alone.  
> Also, I honestly don’t know how many chapters I’m going to write, but I promise you, there will be smut in the future. Also, drama. And fluff. And some more drama :)  
> (Any and all references to obscure films, songs and books are completely arbitrary and serve absolutely no purpose. I just can’t stop myself. Ever.)  
> Story title quoted from “Hero and Leander” – what else?

Will Shakespeare didn’t hate people. Neither in general, nor in particular. He was a pacifist. He made friends with the ones he liked and avoided those whose worldview he disagreed with. Therefore, even the snottiest, most obnoxiously privileged _I-am-the-Prince-of-Wales’-seventh-degree-nephew-_ dandiprat in Will’s direct surroundings at Cambridge University usually never got anything more than polite disinterest out of him.

But then, of course, there was Christopher Marlowe.

And Will _hated_ Christopher Marlowe with a burning passion.

At first glance Marlowe was as clean-cut as they came: Rich, arrogant and an all-around bastard – which really didn’t set him apart from most of the other students. He bestowed his consideration exclusively on people who could further his future career, treated everybody else like particularly dense air and moved about the place like he owned it. Again, nothing really special there. But he had _something_ about him that really ticked Will off.

And it had taken him an embarrassingly long while to figure out what exactly that _something_ was. Three whole months, to be precise.

In the beginning he had suspected it to be the fact that Marlowe dressed like a Dorian-Grey-remake for the 21st century, with his silk suits and his flowy blond hair and his pouty lips, as if to say _not only straight people must adore me._ That was a reason to be angry at him, particularly for a not-so-secretly bi guy like Will, who hated to see somebody so shamelessly abuse the aesthetic of a society-changing movement he most likely didn’t even know existed. That interpretation of Will’s uncharacteristic disfavour had soon died, however, when he’d spotted Marlowe reading _The Importance of Being Earnest_ during lunch break one day, eyebrows drawn together in concentration; which had, for some reason, made him like the guy even less.

Will’s next theory had circled around the fact that Marlowe had an intensely irritating circle of people around him at all times, there exclusively for making googly-eyes at him like a herd of brain-amputated sheep. Marlowe read some self-written poetry to them on occasion, and one time Will had actually listened in, hoping that whatever Marlowe was writing was so god-awful that the deeper parts of Will’s subconscious would finally decide that hating someone like him was really not worth wasting any intellectual prowess on. To Will’s chagrin, Marlowe’s writing had turned out to be quite solid. Better than solid, in fact; and the hatred had only grown stronger.

Later, rather than sooner, Will had figured that it wasn’t the herd of fan-people that pissed him off about Marlowe, either. Queens’ college had its fair share of little elite cliques with corresponding fandom movements, and none of that had ever bothered him.

In the end he had, quite desperately, asked his best friend Alice for _her_ two cents. She had suggested that Will might simply be jealous of Marlowe’s looks, brains and talents like every other guy in college; and Will had gladly run with this theory for a while. Until, one day in American literature class, while zoning out of a dramatic reading of Walt Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ , something in Will’s head had finally clicked into place:

Marlowe was not a vapid bloke.

He was clever, witty, talented and resourceful and seemed to genuinely like books and languages. And Will could actually see himself hanging out with this guy, under different circumstances. Meaning, under circumstances in which Marlowe was not an absolute _prick,_ like every other average _I’m-in-spot-159-for-succession-to-the-throne-_ pillock in this college. Marlowe had potential as a person, and he was wasting it. _That_ was the problem.

Will had told Alice about his epiphany later, and her answer had, unsatisfyingly, consisted in a questioning tilt of her head and a “Why do you give a flying fuck about his so-called _wasted potential_? He’s not exactly your friend, in fact you _actively dislike_ him, so why should that be any of your business? Just let him live, Willie-boy. He lets you live, too.”

“He treats all of us like we don’t exist.”

“Exactly. He lets us live.”

And that exchange still bugged Will to no end. Mostly because Alice was, of course, right. It was so unlike Will to be angry at somebody for living their life, even if it was a life he disagreed with. Why couldn’t he stop fixating on Marlowe so much?

Things came to a bit of a head a few days later when they had to choose topics for the essays they were going to write over the next six weeks, and Marlowe outright _stole_ the one Will had been looking forward to tackling for ages. Will could have sworn he looked smug when his hand shot up just that fragment of a second earlier than Will’s, securing him _Religious Themes in Oscar Wilde’s Poems,_ and leaving Will with _The Symbolism Of Flowers in William Wordsworth’s Poetry._

Will allowed himself a look of disdain in Marlowe’s direction, right then. To his absolute shock, he found Marlowe looking back at him, one eyebrow raised.

 

***

 

“Let me repeat that: He raised an eyebrow at you after he got the essay he knew you wanted. And now you think he’s out to get you, so your hatred is finally justified?”

“Precisely!” Will looked at Alice with a triumphant expression. She took another piece of toast and started buttering it with a shake of her head.

“That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

“How is it absurd? I was resting assured that he doesn’t even know I exist, and then he gives me that _look_ after he took the Wilde-essay away from me. That’s no coincidence.”

“But did he _know_ you wanted this essay that much?”

“For him not to know that, he would have had to be absent from class for the first half of this semester. Which he wasn’t.”

Alice sighed and looked up from her accurately buttered toast. “I still think you’re overanalysing things. Maybe he just really loves Oscar Wilde. Or, well, maybe he _did_ want to be a dick. But for him to want to be a dick to _you_ in particular? The reason eludes me.”

“Maybe he knows how much I don’t like him,” Will gave back, and took a spoonful of porridge. “And this is revenge.”

Alice rolled her eyes at him. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Right there with the best of ‘em.” He smiled around his mouthful of porridge, and Alice snorted, trying hard to hide her amused expression.

That was when Richard slid in next to Will at the table with a gleam in his eye that spelled trouble.

“Morning, Will. Sister, dearest.”

“Brother, love.” Alice surveyed Richard poignantly. “What is it you’re dying to tell us? Cause I can see that there’s _something._ ”

Richard grinned and produced two silvery paper straps, not too unlike those one might get upon entering a club, proving a paid entry fee.

“Walsingham is throwing a party at his house. Tonight.”

Thomas Walsingham was one of the few students at Cambridge who’d have to kill less than 30 people to become King of England. He had his own terrifyingly expensive house in Bateman Street and frequented the university buildings only for the sake of socialising. Will had seen him and Marlowe hang out with each other a few times, which almost made _too_ much sense, really.

“There’s a party at Walsingham’s house every other week,” Alice said, unimpressed.

“Sure there is,” Richard said. “But for this one, I got you tickets.” He bowed forward on the table, whispering. “They say he has a champagne fountain and strippers.”

Will huffed. “Thank you, Richard, for bestowing this honour on us. But why would we go stand around in a room full of people we don’t have anything in common with?”

“Curiosity?” Richard suggested. “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, Will. Molly and I are going, too. And why not at least take a _look_ at the high society in their natural habitat. When will we ever get to do that again? _And_ get hammered on their expenses?”

Will caught Alice’s gaze and made a silent plea with his eyes, but he saw that her brother’s speech was already having an effect.

“Well,” she said. “I mean, it sounds like it could be fun. If we don’t like it, we can leave early. And I _do_ like champagne.” She smiled at Will. “Oh, come on. For once I actually agree with my brother: Why _shouldn’t_ we do a high-society safari?”

“I’m going to regret this,” Will said.

“Sure you are! That’s the point!” Richard gave him a pat on the back. “Very good. Botanic Gardens, then. Ten pm. And dress accordingly!”

He was already sliding out of his sitting position when Alice stopped him.

“Richard, where _exactly_ did you get these?” She pointed at the silvery paper straps. “We’re not going to get in trouble, because you stole them or something. Right?”  
Richard clutched his chest in a dramatic gesture. “I would _never_!” He grinned. “Apparently about ten of Walsingham’s friends couldn’t make it tonight, so Marlowe passed their tickets to me. Said Thomas didn’t have better use for them, and I looked like I might enjoy a good party.”  
“Marlowe?” Will said, incredulous. “Just like that?”

Richard smiled. “Yeah. Just like that.”

 

***

 

“Stop being so paranoid. They couldn’t use the tickets for themselves so they gave them to the masses. Nothing new about that.”

“I’m just saying. Have you seen _The Riot Club_?”

Alice rolled her eyes and kept pulling him along, behind Molly and Richard who were both in a brilliant mood, chatting away and not paying attention to them.

“What do you think is going to happen, Will? A public flogging of the lower classes? The Red Death? Just stop. Fussing. We’re fine. And thanks to Molly, we actually look the part.”

That, indeed, was true. Molly, Richard’s girlfriend, had a staggering and wonderful talent for pulling jewels out of haystacks. Or, to be more precise, for pulling first-class pieces of clothing out of unremarkable second-hand-shops. Since she was a passionate seamstress, too, she spent her free time modifying them into unique items, and Alice and Will had been lucky enough that she had offered to help them out with their dress choices for the evening.

Alice was wearing a short, deep-blue velvet dress with a shimmering, see-through stole Molly had found _somewhere_ in her endless stacks of clothing; and Will had one of his few black suit jackets on, that Molly had swiftly modified with a row of glittering gems on one of the lapels, and a turquoise dress handkerchief in the breast pocket. It looked extravagant, and Will was surprised by how much he liked it.

“We do look the part,” he admitted, just when they reached Walsingham’s house. They could hear the roaring basses of the music even from across the street, and blue-pink light was flashing through the windows on the ground floor.

“The neighbours tolerate this _every weekend_?” Alice said, nervously looking at the other houses in the row, all quiet, dark windows.

“Of course they do, sweetie,” Molly retorted. “Walsingham’s father owns half the street. He forced everybody who complained out. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Way of making yourself likeable,” Will murmured.

“Let’s go!” Richard put an arm around Molly’s waist and pulled her along. “We don’t want to be late.”

“Off to the public flogging then,” Alice added, her tone somewhat less assured than just a few minutes ago, and Will took her hand and squeezed it.

“They’ll never take us alive,” he whispered, and Alice managed a smile.

 

***

 

Will needed air. Desperately. The heat and noise of about fifty dancing, talking, kissing people in every corner of the house was suffocating, and since Alice, Molly and Richard weren’t seeing sense, all of them deeply immersed in a conversation with some theology student called Rob, Will decided to go about it alone. He soon spotted a glass door, right behind the champagne fountain and the scantily-clad, dancing women next to it, that looked like it might be the pathway to a garden of some kind. To Will’s relief it opened without problem, leading him into a walled patch of grass with a small fountain at its centre, surrounded by flowerbeds and blooming bushes.

Stepping out, he was much too busy dragging the sweet, cool night air into his lungs to take note of the man sitting on the edge of the fountain.

“Have you already gotten started on Wordsworth?”

The glowing tip of a cigarette threw shadows on cheekbones that might just as well have been cut from marble and illuminated a hand with too many silver rings on it. Will froze.

“I must say, Oscar _did_ write a whole lot about religion, but I don’t think it’s necessarily very…how do I phrase this…catholic.” Christopher Marlowe grinned around his cigarette in a dastardly manner. “Smoke?”

Oh, that was just Will’s luck. Great.

“I don’t.”

Marlowe frowned. “Liar. Come, have a cigarette.”

Will felt a slight discomfort in his stomach; precursors of the too-familiar anger associated with Marlowe’s presence.

“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

“I was merely offering you a cigarette.”

“No. You were gloating.”

Will hoped the sharp words might annoy Marlowe enough to insult him. They didn’t. He merely chuckled. “Maybe. A little. You really wanted that Wilde-essay, didn’t you?”

“I’m not going to talk to you about this.”

Will noticed that he should have underlined his sentence with something more final. Like, actually walking away, for example _._ Instead he was still standing around, unable to stop staring at Marlowe who was smoking his cigarette in the smuggest way possible.

“I’m getting the not-so-subtle impression that you don’t like me,” Marlowe finally said, conversationally.

“You would be right.”

“Would you care to tell me why?”

“Because you’re an arrogant pillock.”

Marlowe tilted his head, and Will could feel more words aching to break out of him, words that might finally crash through Marlowe’s collected façade and wipe that disinterested smirk right off his face.

“You just _assume_ people should kiss your pompous arse, because you’re rich and good-looking and write solid poetry. You take things away from people, because you can, all the while bathing in your money and notoriety, thinking you’re better than everybody else. Basically, you’re behaving like any other ignorant, detestable, run-of-the-mill Cambridge _prick_.”

The smirk had, indeed, slipped off of Marlowe’s face, which gave Will a modicum of satisfaction; but what he didn’t see coming was Marlowe’s reply.

“I’m not the first, nor, by far, the last person at this school who fits that description. Why do you care so much?”

It was almost the same question Alice had asked Will only days earlier, but it caught him completely by surprise out of Marlowe’s mouth.

“Because you’re someone I could like, otherwise.”

The moment he’d spoken the sentence, Will felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him. He hadn’t just said that. He really, really hadn’t just- Oh _God_.

He was waiting for laughter. He was waiting for ridicule. But Marlowe surprised him. His hand started making a slow tapping motion on the edge of the fountain, right next to him. An invitation. Will moved over, slowly and unsure of what he was doing.

As soon as he had sat down next to Marlowe on the stone basin he could feel eyes carefully looking him up and down. The smoke of Marlowe’s cigarette invaded his nose, and something else beneath it, too, spices, earth and alcohol. _Is this what he smells like?_

“Will Shakespeare,” Marlowe said, curious, and Will shuddered a little. He actually knew his name. Another surprise. “I thought you were one of those commie pseudo-intellectuals who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about and only get to go to Cambridge so Labour stays put.” Will was already about to open his mouth to object harshly, before Marlowe added: “That was, of course, before I read your poems.”

Will gaped. The fact that he wrote his own poetry was not common knowledge. Far from it, in fact. All his poems, novel-length-stories and plays were being posted anonymously on his blog, _World = Stage,_ and nobody except Alice, Richard and Will’s mother (who had all been sworn to absolute secrecy) knew that that blog was his.

“How did you…?”  
Marlowe exhaled smoke with a sly grin. “I won’t disclose my sources, so don’t ask.”

“But-“

“I could hardly believe they were yours, I must admit. But my informants are never wrong, and they were very clear on this one. You’re behind _World = Stage._ ” Marlowe paused. “I love your work.” He said it matter-of-factly, without much emotion, like it was a given, like the fact that Christopher Marlowe _,_ arrogant pillock par-excellence, _liked_ Will’s poetry and _wasn’t too proud to admit it_ was the most usual thing in the universe.

“You…liked my writing?” Will repeated, still thunderstruck.

Marlowe rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like a codfish out of the pond. You know you’re a great writer.” There was a small edge of defiance in Marlowe’s voice, and for a moment Will felt something almost close to fondness burgeoning inside him.

“ _The reason no man knows; let it suffice, what we behold is censured by our eyes. Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”_ he quoted some of the lines he’d caught at Marlowe’s poetry reading.

The look on Marlowe’s face told Will that he’d taken him by surprise. He couldn’t stop a small smile from tugging at his lips.

“When I like a line, I usually remember it,” he explained. “And I liked yours.” In a fit of boldness, he added. “Do you actually believe it? What you wrote there?”

Marlowe huffed. “If we’re getting into the deep questions now, without actually having sorted the easy ones first, will you at least do me one favour and have a cigarette? I hate it when people don’t smoke around me. Makes me feel like that one, bitter, 38-year-old single woman at the fourth wedding in a row, silently praying for death.”

“You’re going to get it, sooner or later. Lung cancer or heart attack, take your pick.”

“Oh, please,” Marlowe said and handed Will a cigarette out of a silver-plated etui and a fancy lighter of the same material with an engraved C.K.M. on the cap. “You forgot strokes, mouth cancer, leukaemia and impotence as viable causes of death by smoking.”

“Impotence is not a cause of death.”

“It certainly is to me,” Marlowe gave back. “If that ever happens, give me a shotgun and I’ll finish the job myself.”

“Very Cobain. Missing the heroin, of course.”

“Heroin? That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll add it to the registry of my future vices.”

Will had finally lit his cigarette and dragged the smoke into his lungs, revelling in the rush of nicotine to his system. He hadn’t had one in far too long. The thought brought something to his mind.

“How did you know I smoke? On occasion, mind you.”

Marlowe blinked at him. “What?”

“You asked me to have a cigarette with you earlier and when I said I don’t smoke you called me a liar. How come?”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though.” Marlowe sent Will a smile, a small one, but it looked honest, not tinged with sarcasm for once; and Will had to admit that Marlowe looked even more beautiful like this. Smiling.

“Now that I’m smoking…” he began, distracting himself from such unhelpful thoughts.  


Marlowe sighed. “Yes. You asked me a difficult question. Listen, Will: A real artist creates beautiful things and puts nothing of his own life into them.”

“Are you quoting _Velvet Goldmine_ at me?”

“Figures you’re one of the twenty people who’ve actually seen that film.” Another one of those miniscule smiles in Will’s direction. “I’m trying to follow the directive, though. I never write about myself, always about other people. And it just never works out. Some piece of me tends to get lodged somewhere, like an ugly big splinter of wood behind a fingernail. The rest of the world doesn’t see it, but I do. And it pisses me off.”

Will laughed. “Seriously? It pisses you off that you’re in your own poems? I know _nobody_ who doesn’t put at least a bit of themselves into their stuff. It’s par for the course. It makes your writing quintessentially _yours._ ”

“I couldn’t give half a fuck about _quintessentially mine_. I want my writing pure, unadulterated. Not filtered through the perspective of a jaded, twenty-four-year-old nicotine-addict with too much money and time on his hands. I want to _be_ who I write, while I write them, whoever they are. They’re supposed to be transformative. That’s why I don’t want _me_ in there. Do you see how frustrating it is, when you then look at your work and find that you’ve ended up with some abstraction of yourself, _again_? Drives me up the wall.”

Will lowered the hand holding his cigarette and started playing with the lighter that he was still clutching in the other, in search for a good answer.

“The people I write about always have parts of me in them. Different ones, in different compositions, but I can’t just – step out of my writing. It never really bothered me.”  
“Of course it didn’t,” Marlowe retorted. “It wouldn’t bother _me_ , either, if my writing was that fucking good.”

Will felt himself turn a little red. He had expected many things from this conversation, but being abundantly complimented by Marlowe certainly hadn’t been one of them.

“What inspires you, Will?”

“Hm?”

“Every writer has a pattern, we just don’t like to talk about it with anybody. When do you write your best stuff?” Marlowe’s eyes were gleaming with blatant interest.

“Could be any day of the week, to be honest. I get an idea in my head, I need to write it down. Maybe I’ve heard a particularly well-phrased sentence, caught an unfamiliar scent, listened to an interesting conversation. It just happens, really. Nothing special.”

“ _Nothing special_?” Marlowe’s hand was a sudden presence on Will’s forearm, squeezing. “Are you crazy? Do you know how many artists would _kill_ for that sort of inspiration? I, for one, have to work myself into an inspirational delirium before I’m getting anywhere.”

“Inspirational delirium?” Will inquired, trying to ignore the warmth of Marlowe’s hand that was insistently pressing through the sleeve of his suit jacket. It frightened him a little how normal it felt to have Marlowe touch him like this.

“Oh, the usual. Drugs, nicotine, alcohol, sex. It works on musicians, I figured it must work on me as well.”

“Seems to, going by your poetry. Even though I have to admit that it doesn’t exactly sound healthy.”

Marlowe dropped his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it with the heel of a very polished, very expensive-looking leather boot. His hand left Will’s arm in the process.

“We’re all dying anyway. And who needs health when you’ve got a reputation,” Marlowe quipped.

 “Yeah, right. And Alice tells me _I’m_ overly dramatic.” Will took another drag of his cigarette. “She clearly hasn’t met you.”

“Alice – are we talking about the blonde you’re hanging out with every day?”

“Alice Burbage, yes. You know her brother. Gave him tickets for tonight.”

Recognition flashed up in Marlowe’s eyes. “Richard! Of course. Lousy poker player, daft bastard and the least complicated person I know.” It didn’t sound like a compliment, but it wasn’t exactly an insult either – more like a factual description.

Marlowe pulled another cigarette out of his etui. “Are you sleeping with her?”

The question caught Will flat-footed.

“What?”

“I’m asking whether you’re having regular sexual intercourse with Alice Burbage. It’s a yes or no question, in case you were confused.” Marlowe’s face had taken on an almost obnoxiously self-satisfied expression.

“I…no…I – we were drunk, and it wasn’t… That’s personal!”

Marlowe made a pacifying gesture with his hands, and Will realised that he had gotten up without meaning to, the tell-tale heat of embarrassment in his face.

“Calm down. Drunk, best friends, a comfortable bed nearby; honestly, who hasn’t? Also, you were the one who started with the deep questions, so don’t you put that on me.”

“That was about writing. Two completely different things,” Will murmured and sat down again, sheepishly.

“Are they, though? I think sex and writing have a lot in common. Could you hand me my lighter for a second?” His gaze swept over Will’s upper body, then down to his hand in a seemingly casual manner and Will’s mouth went a little dry when he handed Marlowe the lighter he had forgotten he was still holding. This was not a turn he had seen this conversation take… But honestly, he hadn’t seen a great many things happening this evening. It might be better to content himself with the fact that he was caught in a conversation with an extremely unpredictable man, and just let it go.

“I’m dying to hear your deliberations,” he said with a sigh, while Marlowe clicked the lighter open.

“Of course you are.” He took the first drag of his fresh cigarette and let out the smoke with something akin to a purr. “With both sex and writing, when it’s good, you lose yourself in the act. And while you write with a pen on paper and a keyboard on computer pages, you also write with fingers and lips on another person. Sex _can_ be an art, you know?”

Looking at Marlowe’s smoke-swirled form, the curling of his blond hair on the expensive fabric of his suit jacket, the wistful expression in his eyes and the sinful line of his mouth curving heavenwards, Will didn’t doubt it for a second.

That was when he noticed the scent of the smoke streaming from Marlowe’s cigarette, a lot stronger and sweeter than tobacco.

“Are you smoking marijuana?” he asked, unable to keep the touch of indignation from his voice.

Marlowe chuckled. “I’ve never heard anybody call it _marijuana._ Not even coppers.” He gave Will a heavy-lidded smile that made his knees grow a little weak. “I usually spike one or two of the cigarettes I carry. Keeps things interesting.”

Will looked down at his own cigarette. “You mean… _this one_ could have been spiked as well?!”

“Relax. It’s not exactly Russian Roulette.”

Will got up, throwing the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stomping on it with more aggression than absolutely necessary.

“Leaving already?” Marlowe asked. “Don’t care for another cigarette? I’m happy to offer.”

Will huffed. “Well, what’s going to be in the next one? Crack cocaine? Methamphetamine?”

Marlowe rolled his eyes. He looked terrifyingly elegant, sitting there on the edge of the fountain in his dark red suit, thin legs crossed, face lit sparsely through the windows, blue eyes partially obscured by the smoke he was blowing out. “Do you think me that dense? I would never carry anything with me that could get me in genuine trouble.” Without warning he got up, and made two short steps towards Will, until he came to a halt right inside Will’s personal space. His face was too close and his warm breath reached the side of Will’s mouth, and Will knew he should move, but it felt like he had been hypnotised, unable to take his eyes away from Marlowe’s.

“Also, I _hate_ crack, believe it or not. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.”

“You have?” Will said and it sounded a lot more timid than he would have liked it to.

“Of course. It’s in my cabinet, and the print says _I’ve been on crack once._ Everybody gets one these days. It’s the hip new thing.” Marlowe grinned and Will finally came to his senses, taking a measured step back.

“You are _so_ full of shit, Marlowe.”

Marlowe spread his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “Oh, please, call me Kit.”

“Only if you _don’t_ call me Will. That’s reserved for my friends.”

“Pity. I’ll have to think of a different name for you then. Suggestions?”

“I should have gotten out of here ten minutes ago,” Will murmured, half to himself, turning towards the glass door he had come through.

“No, that’s a bit too long,” Marlowe retorted behind him. “I think I’ll go with _William._ ”

Will sighed and turned back to him. “Fine. Call me William, if you must.”

“Very well, William. Do believe me, I would never have made you smoke anything you weren’t prepared for. I mark my special cigarettes with an _X_ up on the filter. Smoking weed in study pauses can be very counterproductive. I like to avoid it.”

Will looked at him, blinking, while it sunk in how stupid he had been behaving for the past minute. “Well, you could have told me, _before_ I drew any conclusions.” It sounded sulky more than defensive, and Will immediately felt his face heat up.

“If you’d let me,” Marlowe gave back, with surprisingly little venom. He was stepping towards Will yet again, but this time he stopped at a respectful distance, taking another pull from his cigarette.

Will swallowed. “At least…you could have been less vague.”

“Have you truly never smoked weed, William?” Marlowe asked, completely passing over Will’s embarrassment, which gave Will a chance to collect himself that he was very grateful for.  
“Of course I have,” he finally answered. “I’m friends with Richard, have you already forgotten?”

That made Marlowe laugh out loud. “Oh, how unobservant of me. I’m officially asking, then: Do you want some?”

This was, most likely, a very, very bad idea. But Marlowe was looking directly at Will with no traces of dishonesty whatsoever in his clear blue gaze, and Will felt a small sting in his stomach, telling him that he might have been a little unfair towards Marlowe to begin with, judging him by what he thought he knew about him. He usually prided himself on his lack of prejudice, but it had completely failed him with Marlowe. Not once now, but twice.

“In fact…I could use some,” he said, and Marlowe whipped out his etui with a smile, the half smoked weed-cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and started rummaging through its contents, obviously in search for an _X_ on a filter.

“Mh. A shade early. I have only the one.” He closed the etui again. “Care to share?”

Marlowe removed the cigarette from his mouth and held it out towards Will, who took it without further consideration, following Marlowe back to the fountain and sitting down, before he took his first hit. The next few minutes went by in silence, cigarette passing between them, and after a while Will slowly felt the tension seep out of his muscles.

“I’m sorry for, you know…for taking you for…,” he began.  
“Somebody who might drug you?”

“Yes. That.” Will was unsure whether to say it, but the words still bubbled over his lips, partially prompted by the spicy, sweet smoke in his system. “I was unfair to you. Really. I thought…well, I thought I knew who you are, but that was a whole lot of prejudice on my part, too. I mean, a few things are definitely true, you’re _in fact_ pompous and arrogant and capricious, and you can really fuck with people, if you want to, but you’re also kind of…not superficial and nice and intelligent and you have very good hair, and-” _Jesus fuck, stop fucking talking, you deranged idiot._

Silence fell for a moment.

“ _Capricious._ That’s a wonderful word,” Marlowe finally said, exhaling smoke. “You’re well advised not to trust people who might drug you, William. Never hurts to be careful. And though I, myself, consider it reprehensible to resort to such practices…” He halted, and Will lifted his eyes to look at him, where he found him looking back with an intensity in his gaze that sent Will’s insides into a heated downward twirl. “…I’m not exactly known for my noble intentions, either,” Marlowe ended. His eyes swept over Will’s form, a lot less casually than before; and then he raised the cigarette he was holding and shot the glowing remains a rather critical look. “Almost gone.”

“You can have the rest,” Will said. His voice sounded weird to his own ears, throatier than he was used to, and he swallowed hard.

Marlowe smiled, somewhat wickedly. “I have a better idea. Breathe in.” Will didn’t understand immediately what he was on about, all his thoughts muddled by blue eyes and smoke and that _smile_ , while Marlowe took the last drag from their shared cigarette. He bowed forward, his long, cool fingers a sudden presence at Will’s cheek, and Will’s stomach lurched, when the penny finally dropped. He opened his mouth against Marlowe’s like a reflex, breathing the smoke deep into his lungs, while their lips connected in an electric tangle, three-four-five seconds, Marlowe’s tongue a hot, sweeping presence at Will’s lower lip; and Will wanted more, wanted to kiss him, _really_ kiss him, bite at his lip and leave marks on his pale, untarred neck, until he’d shiver and beg him for more.

But Will had to breathe out, sooner or later, smoke welling from between his lips, Marlowe’s touch leaving his cheek, and the moment was over.

And then Alice’s voice cut through the air like a hot knife.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here? We were looking for you all over the house!”

Will’s heart sank rapidly. She was standing in the glass door, staring at him with a mix of shock and disgust in her eyes, and Marlowe gave a small, amused laugh.

“Smoking,” he said, like he was stating something very obvious. “It’s like breathing. Only more interesting.”

Alice huffed, and Marlowe got up. “I’ll leave you to it. Miss Burbage. _William._ ” With a small flick of his wrist he threw something gleaming at Will, that landed in his lap. Marlowe’s silver lighter. “In case you need to light any more cigarettes tonight. I want it back, though. Tomorrow. You know where to find me.” He politely stepped around Alice in front of the door, ignoring her glare.

“See you, Kit,” Will said, on a whim, and though Marlowe didn’t turn around anymore, Will saw him stop for a second, inside the doorframe, before he left in the direction of the champagne fountain.


	2. In Between Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Meaning is not in things but in between them."
> 
> \- taken freely from Norman O. Brown, picked up in "Velvet Goldmine"

„He wasn’t _molesting_ me, Alice. What are you even on about?”

Alice was walking so fast that Will had problems keeping up with her, trying to dodge the tails of her stole that were fluttering wildly behind her. As soft and delicate as the fabric looked, having it thrown into his face at full walking speed was not very enjoyable.

“Well, what then? Because I’m at a loss as to why you would ditch your friends at a house party only to go make out with a guy you supposedly _hate_ _with the fire of a thousand suns_?”

“I didn’t ditch you, Alice! You were talking to – what’s his face? Bob?”

“Rob. Southwell. And let me tell you, he is _very_ educated. And handsome. And tall.”

Will furrowed his brows. “Yes, alright. Rob. Listen, Alice, I needed some air. I asked you if you wanted to come with, but you all refused, so I went alone-“

“And picked up blondie on the way?”

“No, Kit was already outside. He was smoking. We…had a disagreement. And then, we had an _a_ greement. He’s not that bad, really. I completely misgauged him. Almost feel sorry for the awful things I said about him over the past few months.”

“Kit? You’re on pet name terms now?”

“No…” Will grinned a little at the memory, despite himself. “No, he calls me _William._ ”

“That much I’ve heard.”

They turned left into Silver Street, and Queens’ College came into view, right behind the bridge, quiet and dark.

“And the kissing? How do you explain that?” Alice demanded.

Will stopped her right then, on the bridge, pulled her back by her arm and forced her to face him. A few guys who stood smoking in front of the bar on the corner gave them curious looks, and Will wondered for a short moment if what he was doing could be counted as coercion. He let Alice go, but, luckily, she didn’t immediately run away again.

“We were smoking some weed he had in his cigarette case and we shared the last hit,” he explained, as calmly as possible, if a little out of breath.

To his horror, Will noticed right then that Alice’s eyes were swimming with tears.

“Alice?” he said, all remnants of sharpness gone from his voice in an instant.

“Oh, don’t fucking _Alice_ me. You got high with a guy you barely even know…no, a guy you _hate,_ actually, instead of spending the evening with your _friends._ Just goes to show how dependable you really are, Will _._ ”

“It was only twenty minutes! And you were talking to Southwell that whole time. I really thought it wasn’t an issue –“

“You THOUGHT…” Alice shook her head, and for a moment she looked like she wanted to say more, but then she seemed to think better of it. “I’m going to bed now.”

“Alice, please, I’m sorry. I…“

“Don’t, Will. Don’t.”

And then Alice turned away again, resuming her brisk pace and leaving Will on the bridge by himself. He threw another look towards the guys in front of the bar, and two of them saluted him with their beer, a solemn expression on their faces.

“Girls, right?” one of them called in Will’s direction.

Will just gave a tired smile and walked the same way Alice had gone.

 

***

 

The next day went by with agonizing slowness. It was Saturday and sunny, one of those rare concurrences that, under normal circumstances, Will and Alice would have used to find a place by the river, play fifty rounds of UNO and bathe in the sun.

But Alice was answering neither to Will’s text messages nor to his calls, she was nowhere to be found in person, Richard and Molly were suspiciously absent as well; and at about 3 p.m. Will finally decided that he was wasting his time hibernating inside his room, took his jacket, grabbed the collection of Wordsworth poems he had recently borrowed from the library and marched off towards the Cam.

When the sun started setting at about seven thirty, Will was surprised at how much he had gotten done. The framework of his essay now existed in notes on his phone, and the poems he would present as evidence for certain aspects of Wordsworth’s flower symbolism had been exhaustingly marked in his book with little blue post-its.

He went past Alice’s room once again when he got back to Queens’, but she was still not there. Maybe she was visiting her parents in London with Richard and Molly? Plausible. Sure enough, he’d see her again on Monday, and then they would be able to resolve their issues. Everything would be alright.

Back in his room, Will’s roommate Eddie – a thin, wiry guy who hardly ever slept there, because he had a girlfriend with a flat in town – wasn’t home, and Will sank down on his bed, contemplating what he was going to do with the rest of his evening. He had almost decided in favour of a round of Netflix, when his eyes fell on the silver lighter that was still lying around on his nightstand. _C.K.M._ What did that even stand for? _Christopher Kit Marlowe?_ Possible. But who on earth used their nickname as their second initial?

_I want it back. Tomorrow. You know where to find me._

Will came to a decision, then, with a swiftness that surprised himself, grabbed the lighter from his nightstand and got to his feet. A look in the mirror over the sink told him that he didn’t look too shabby, and though his jeans-and-white-shirt combination didn’t really scream _Fashionista!_ at least he wasn’t wearing jogging trousers.

He knew the way to Marlowe’s room, because he’d watched him disappear in it a few times – it seemed that hating somebody so much for so long that one actually paid attention to them was really paying off, just this once. On the way Will asked himself, again, what he actually thought of Marlowe… _Kit_ , now that he’d gotten to know him a little. Now that he’d – kind of kissed him, too. The memory of Kit’s mouth hotly moulding itself against Will’s own flooded Will’s thoughts for the about 43rd time today, and he had to actively will it away again. He had been well aware, from the moment he’d first seen him, what level of attraction Kit exerted on people in general. And now that Will didn’t _hate_ him anymore, maybe even found his presence moderately bearable, the fact that Kit was hot as hell had really sunken in for the first time. _Also, the kiss. Don’t forget the kiss._

Will’s thoughts were still a big, messy bundle of confusion when he reached Kit’s door and knocked. Nothing happened for a few moments, and he was just about to turn and walk back to his room, when the door was ripped open.

In the frame stood Kit.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Will noticed, for the first time, that Kit had _tattoos._ Plural. Will counted six of them: An old-fashioned gyve on his left upper arm, an anchor with a snake on the right, a swallow right beneath it in the curve of his elbow; a skull and a bleeding heart on his chest, and a spider on his abdomen. In this tattooed shirtless state, with his almost-too-slim body and the lack of chest hair, he looked more like a rockstar than somebody who was actually studying English at Cambridge and…oh God, Will was staring at him like an absolute creep.

“Hey,” he said, averting his eyes, and started rummaging through his pockets for the lighter while desperately trying to will the scarlet out of his face. “I just…you wanted your lighter back…”

“Good evening, William. Before you do anything rash, why don’t you just come in?” It sounded exhausted but in an almost fond way, and Will stepped inside, just as he managed to pull the lighter from his pocket.

“Ta-da. There you go.”

Kit smiled at him and took the lighter from his hand, sinking it into the pocket of his jeans. “Did you need to light any more cigarettes last night?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no. I took Alice home, and that was about it.”

Will let his eyes drift through Kit’s room and assessed, with growing surprise, that it looked…normal. A little messy, clothes all over the floor, an empty glass on the side of the sink, a laptop half open on the bed. And, apart from the fact that everything in here seemed to possess a brand name, not so different from Will’s own room.

“Were you expecting a coffin and a mini fridge with blood packets?” Kit asked, as though he’d read Will’s thoughts.

“More like a secret marble bathroom and a garage for your Lamborghini,” Will retorted.

Kit snickered. “I drive Porsche. I parked it outside, for a change.”

Will couldn’t really tell if that was a joke.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Kit said and removed some of his clothes from the second bed in the room, so Will had space to sit.

“Isn’t your roommate complaining that you’re hogging all his furniture?”

“I don’t have a roommate,” Kit said, grabbed a black top from the floor that had an obnoxiously big _CK_ printed on the front and pulled it over his head. Will was almost a little disappointed, before he managed to call himself to order with a mental slap to his face.

“Did yours have to move out, because he complained too much? Like Thomas Walsingham’s neighbours?”

Kit laughed. “Good God, where did you get _that one_ from?”

“Richard’s girlfriend. She said Walsingham’s Dad evicted everybody who didn’t agree with his partying.”

Kit laughed a little harder. “Tommy’s neighbours are all students, William, and regularly invited to his parties. They don’t complain, because they’re usually _there._ ”

“Oh. Makes sense.”

“And, just for the record, I don’t have a roommate, because they never gave me one in the first place, for whatever reason. Odd numbers? Sudden case of death? Who the fuck knows.”

Will mumbled another “Makes sense”, not sure what else to say after he’d made a fool of himself yet _again._

“Drink?”, Kit asked, stepping towards his nightstand and opening it. Where Will stored his cables and headphones, Kit stored a very expensive-looking collection of whiskys and crystal glasses.

“I’d recommend the _Jameson,_ if you’re not a regular whisky consumer, though my personal favourite is the _Lagavulin._ 16 years old. Very good stuff.” He surveyed Will, a quizzical expression in his eyes. “Though you might just be the kind of guy who…yes, why not? I’m going to pour you a _Glenmorangie._ Just a sip. You can give it to me if you don’t like it.”

Will nodded, for lack of a better reaction and took a glass from Kit’s hands that had been filled for him with a fingerbreadth of amber liquid. He had drunken whisky before, but usually along the lines of _Jack Daniel’s._ This one was quite different; he could tell from the smell alone. Smoke, leather and…something fruity and complex beneath it.

Kit raised his glass. “To the strange and obscure circumstances that have bereaved me of a roommate. Cheers.” He clinked their glasses together and sat down on the bed opposite Will, who sipped on his _Glenmorangie._ The whisky burned his mouth and throat, but in a much more pleasant way than the things he used to drink.

“Mmmh,” he said.

“You like it?” Kit grinned at him like a satisfied cat.

“Yes. It’s…different.”

“What an eloquent description.” Kit let himself sink back a little, supporting his weight with one outstretched arm behind him. The light from the lamp on his nightstand painted shadows on his long neck, and his blond hair was falling down over his shoulder in an artful tumble. It was a sight to behold.

“Alice isn’t talking to me,” Will said, all of a sudden, unsure where _that_ had come from.

Kit didn’t seem too surprised. “I could tell. She wasn’t very happy with you yesterday, was she?”

“She was…strange. On the way back to Queens’. Hurtling accusations at me, about how I’m not dependable, because I wasn’t spending the evening with my friends. I was only gone for twenty minutes. Irrationality is usually not her style.”

Kit blinked at him for a long while. “Well, _I’m_ getting the feeling that… look, I’m not very good at phrasing things so they don’t offend people, so I’ll just give you what I have, okay?”

Will swallowed and steeled himself. “Take it away.”

“I’m getting the feeling that your dirty little rough-and-tumble left a bit more of an impression on her than on you. I don’t know this girl, of course, but I’ve been there a few times. A few…many times. She was _screaming_ slighted lover to me, yesternight in that garden.”

Will’s heart sank. “Do you really think that?”

Kit tilted his head to the side. “I don’t lie to people, if there’s nothing in it for me.”

“Oh fuck,” Will said, burying his free hand in his hair. “What do I do now?”

“You’re asking _me_?”  
“You happen to be, for some reason, the only person I’ve disclosed this to, Kit, so you better see it through.”

Kit sighed. “I’m not an expert, but it looks like you only really have three options, William. Number One: You apologise, tell her you love her, tell her you were just confused about your emotions, and make her your official girlfriend. Number Two: You look for a new friend _._ Number Three… Oh. That one is unrealistic. I’m sorry.”

“Is it the one where I explain to her that I don’t like her that way and that we should continue to be friends and it actually works out?”

“Yes. Unrealistic.”

Will took a long sip from his whisky. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an incorrigible cynic?”

“Never in such pretty words.”

For a while there was silence between them, but not of the uncomfortable kind. More…companionable, really.

“Music?” Kit asked, and Will nodded. His glass was empty by now, and Kit took it from his hands and refilled it with more _Glenmorangie._

“I’ve only known her for half a year,” Will continued, unthinking. “But it always felt like we were…meant to be friends. Her weird and my weird just – matched.”  
“And – not that I actually care, but simply for the sake of conversation – you never wanted her as something else?” Kit asked, while he was fiddling with his wireless music device.

“That one time we slept with each other…we were very, very drunk. And high. And horny. And the bloke she had been dating hadn’t been working out for her, and I hadn’t gotten laid in ages... What I’m saying is that it was completely circumstantial. I never really gave it much thought. Maybe I should have, though.”

“And what would _giving it thought_ have changed? Absolutely nothing. Stupid shit happens. People fall in love with people they shouldn’t be falling in love with. We can’t really do anything about that. Part of the human condition.”

Music was seeping out of Kit’s speakers now, and Will recognised the song.

“Iggy Pop?”

“The one and only.” Kit gave Will one of his rare, knee-weakeningly honest smiles. “You listen to him?”

“Occasionally.”

“Mh, better than nothing.” He emptied the rest of his whisky glass in one draught, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and stalked over to where Will was sitting on the other bed, flopping down next to him.

“Now, for something more interesting: What are you writing on, William Shakespeare?”

Kit’s sudden proximity had Will a little lost for words, so he stared into his whisky glass for a few moments before he answered.

“Poem. It’s about…well, it’s not finished. I wanted it to be about beauty. Or maybe, about what the beauty of a person _can_ be, in comparison to – say – the beauty of summer. Not the most original notion, but I thought I could turn it into something interesting.”

“Do you have a few lines for me?” Kit asked

“Ahem.” Will cleared his throat and searched his mind for the most _finished_ part of his poem. “ _Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed._ ” He cleared his throat again. “That’s it. The rest is yet to be written. Or re-written.”

He dared look up into Kit’s face then, and saw Kit staring back at him with a strange expression that made him shiver a little in its intensity. “I’m not sure if it’s going to be –,“ he began.

“It’s going to be fantastic,” Kit interrupted him, in a tone of voice that allowed no dissent. “People are going to want to print this and write it on their walls and quote it at their weddings.” He chuckled. “Would make you really unlikeable, if you were actually smug about it.”

“Well, not everyone can be you.”

“And rightly so. The world wouldn’t be able to handle more of my sort.”

Will snorted. “Your sort?”

“Oh, you know. Tragic, strung-out degenerates who spend their parents’ money in an attempt to achieve an education that might give them a shred of credibility, only to end up in a job that sucks the life out of them and spirals them into an alcohol addiction, leading to an untimely, unattractive death. My sort.”

Will looked him up and down. There was no hint of irony in his features, no smile on his lips. Kit actually meant what he said, and Will realised that he had just encountered a part of him that usually didn’t see the light of day. Underneath all of Kit’s bravado, there was _this_ , a condition that was deeply familiar to Will: That, maybe, nothing he was doing really meant anything.

“No, Kit. That’s not going to happen to you.”

Kit huffed. He sounded angry all of a sudden. “How would you know, William? You’re one of those people who nobody will ever suck the life out of, not a job, not a wife, not even _children._ You’re not me. You don’t know _anything_ about me.”

“I know what it feels like to have nothing make sense. I know what it feels like to be lost in something you have no control over. I might not be _you_ , but I’ve sure as fuck been _there_ , and done that, _and_ gotten the t-shirt.”

“And what does your t-shirt say?” Kit sneered. “ _Never give up_? _Live for your dreams_? _Choose life_? _Choose a career_? _Choose a family_?”

“It says _Make your own fucking meaning because nobody else is doing it for you,_ ” Will said, matter-of-factly.

A little while passed, in which Kit stayed very silent, and Will felt his muscles tense up, his own words ringing back and forth in his head. He really wasn’t sure what to expect now.

Kit’s hand, adorned with his usual silver rings, appeared in Will’s field of vision and took the forgotten whisky glass out of his hands, putting it down on the floor.

“Do you want me to go?” Will asked, his eyes fixed to his knees. It seemed like a sensible question. At least before Kit’s fingers touched Will’s cheek, turning his head until he had to look Kit in the eye. “No,” he said, and then his face was drifting towards Will’s, slowly, giving him time to move away.

He didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smut in the next chapter ^^


	3. Immortal Longings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra"
> 
> (Adjusted the rating...)

Their lips touched in a way that was much less rushed and much more purposeful than the night before. There was no smoke between them, this time, no high, only the soft thrill of the kiss itself. Kit tasted like the whisky he had been drinking, like cigarettes and expensive aftershave; and when his tongue started exploring Will’s mouth, it was bold, brazen and in charge. Will answered in kind, because _this_ was something he’d done before, something he didn’t need to learn first. He let his teeth scrape against Kit’s lower lip and felt an answering hand at the back of his head, slotting them closer together, so he could do it again; a gasp in his mouth, when he bit down harder. Will smiled into the kiss, allowed his hands to tangle in Kit’s hair, full and soft under his fingers, allowed his blood to flow in the opposite direction of his brain, allowed his mouth to surrender to Kit’s hunger for a while; and soon enough Kit had found the seam of his shirt and slipped his hand beneath it. Will made a small sound in his throat, when the cool silver outlines of Kit’s rings slid over his bare skin, and Kit’s lips grew even more insistent on his mouth, until Will retaliated and tugged on Kit’s hair firmly enough to bend his head backwards, baring his neck and diving down to press a long kiss near the tendon of the muscle there, tongue and teeth and suction. Kit didn’t disappoint at all, fingers claw-like on Will’s back and in his hair; and Will _really_ wanted more of that. He moved on, down over Kit’s collarbone, until his brand shirt started getting in the way.

“Why did you _have to_ put this thing on?” Will said into Kit’s collarbone, and he could feel the reverb of Kit’s laughter in his ribcage.

“Bargaining chip. Since you’re still wearing yours... And if you keep being in the way here, it’s not coming off, either.”

Will sighed and extracted himself from Kit’s throat. When he looked at him, his bitten mouth, the tracks of pink on his neck, the pools of black in his eyes, his stomach flipped with arousal; and the surreality of the situation really hit him. Hadn’t he stared at Kit in disgust just a week ago? Hadn’t he _despised_ him? When had that stopped? Or had it never? Was this just a strange outlet for Will’s loathing?

Kit tugged the Calvin Klein shirt over his head, and Will let all his questions slip away into the back of his mind, stunned by the view of the black lines imprinted into Kit’s skin that were once more revealed, stark interruptions of his paleness. He bowed forward to touch, but Kit was faster, and a moment later, Will was pressed to the bed back-first, Kit’s long fingers fastened around his wrists and pinning them to the mattress, over his head. Will’s heart was pounding, hard, and he felt his cock strain against his jeans, when Kit gave him a wicked smile.

“And now?” Will asked, breathless.

Kit brought his body down on Will’s in an almost elegant grind, and Will felt his hardness against his hip, an unthought moan gliding over his lips. It was intoxicating, being surrounded by Kit’s attention, his curiosity and growing arousal; and Kit was kissing him again, kissing him like he was starving. Will was honestly surprised by how much passion Kit put into it. The sheer, consuming heat of his mouth didn’t really match up with the icy, biting cynicism it spewed in every other situation; but then, it absolutely _did_ fit into the mystery puzzle that was Kit Marlowe. With this, as with almost everything else, he was more than met the eye.

Kit’s lips wandered over Will’s jaw, towards his ear, where they slipped along the sensitive shell in a hot slide.

“What do you want to do?” he whispered. “We have several possibilities.”

His tone of voice might have sounded business-like, if not for the pleasingly compromising position they were in, Kit’s mouth pressed to Will’s ear, the unmistakable proof of arousal between them.

“If you ask me like _that,_ I’m open to a great many things.” Will coaxed Kit’s head up, so he could see him. “What do _you_ want to do?”

Kit looked back at him with an odd expression in his eyes, like he meant to say something joking, but thought better of it.

“How many men have you been with?” he finally asked. “Not _people_. Men.”

Will swallowed and thought, for a moment, about how many men _Kit_ had probably been with. “I’m not… _that_ experienced,” he admitted.

Kit shook his head and bowed down, until his face was so close to Will’s that the only thing Will could focus on were his eyes.

“How many?” he asked again, undeterred.

“One. I…I told you, I’m not that experienced.”

Will saw Kit’s smile in his eyes. It wasn’t deprecating. “Good. Now, what have you done with him? I’m not asking for shits and giggles; but I really don’t want to break ground here that hasn’t been broken before, without talking first, if you catch my meaning.”

“Are we talking about fucking?” Will asked as conversationally as possible, even though his heart was threatening to beat out of his chest.

Kit was outright grinning now, and his lips moved in, until they almost touched Will’s. “Mh, yes, William. We’re talking about fucking.”

Will’s insides were tangling in a complicated, anticipation-riddled knot, and his cock was throbbing in his jeans. He’d expected some more or less wordless fooling around here, handjobs, blowjobs, the like, but surely not _this._ He hadn’t even known Kit for 24 hours! Or, well, he _had_ known him, but he surely hadn’t _liked_ him this long. That didn’t, however, stop Will from finding the idea of _fucking_ in combination with _Kit_ almost painfully arousing.

He realised, right then, that Kit was waiting for him to say something, and tried to get his thoughts in a somewhat coherent order.

“Jamie and I, we…yes, uh, we…I have. Before. Done that. In, uh, both ways.”

“Excellent,” Kit said and his hand slipped under Will’s shirt and started drawing slow circles on his stomach. The metal of his rings was catching on Will’s heated skin on the upstroke, and the graze gave him shivers of the most pleasurable kind. “Which way did you prefer?” Kit asked, softly.

Though phrased eloquently, there it was, the dreaded question: _Top or bottom?_ Will was transferred back to his first night in a gay bar for a moment, where he had been abundantly lectured on the importance of that decision by a patron who’d been about twenty years Will’s senior at the time. Luckily, Will had met his future boyfriend Jamie in that same bar not even an hour later, and soon figured out that the answer to this question didn’t really matter as much as he had been made believe. Or…well, it hadn’t mattered at the time, because it had been _Jamie_ , and they’d enjoyed being with each other, never mind where whose parts were going…

“I’m not sure,” Will said, honestly. “What about you?”

Kit smiled. “It depends.”

“On?”

“The preferences of my partner. My mood. The weather. What I’ve had for breakfast…”

“Stop teasing.”

“Never.” Kit found Will’s nipple under his shirt and pinched it, and Will gave a small gasp instead of the snappy retort that lay on the tip of his tongue.

Then Kit’s expression turned more serious and thoughtful again and his free hand pushed a strand of hair out of Will’s forehead in such a tender way that Will instinctively held his breath.

“It’s been a while,” he murmured, almost to himself. Another beautiful smile flashed over his face. “If it’s all the same to you – let me be the receptacle for your…affections tonight?”

It took Will way too long to understand what Kit was saying here – so long, in fact, that Kit rolled his eyes at him, the annoyance in his expression only tempered by his spreading smile.

When the penny finally dropped, something in Will’s stomach sprang to life, wild and demanding. In a moment he had flipped them both around, so Kit was under him, pleasantly surprised, but catching up quickly, his hands under Will’s shirt, pulling it over his head and off in a very efficient way; and Will looked at him for a moment, dazed.

“You want me to fuck you,” he said, and it was a statement, not a question.

Kit grinned up at him through his lashes, a deadly combination of mischievous and seductive. “That took you a while,” he said, and another layer was added to his expression: Challenge. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

A sound erupted from Will’s throat, something not unlike a growl, and he couldn’t remember ever _wanting_ somebody as much as he wanted Kit right now, at least not in such a painfully physical way. The fact that he could… _would_ have him, that Kit was _allowing him_ was almost too much.

Will let his needs take over, let his mouth draw hot paths over the black lines on Kit’s chest and abdomen, while his hands were busying themselves with the buttons on Kit’s jeans. He could feel the heat and hardness inside them, and when he finally managed to pull them down and off, fully prepared to mock Kit for the Calvin Klein boxer briefs he was expecting, there was, in actuality, no more fabric in his way. Just Kit’s erection, jutting upwards, sleek and long like the rest of his body. Will inhaled sharply, and he could see Kit’s abdominal muscles jumping with silent laughter at Will’s startled expression.

“Commando, Mr. Marlowe?” he inquired, finally, watching the laughter in Kit’s face with burning interest, while his fingers closed around his length.

“Hardly an exceptional case,” Kit said. His voice wasn’t as levelled as before, his hair was a mess and his cheeks looked a little pinker than usual. Will felt another surge of want well up inside him, barely contained.

“You walk around like this in uni,” Will said. “With no pants.” His hand was moving upwards on Kit’s cock now, swiping over the sensitive tip with his thumb, and Kit gave a small groan. “Regularly,” Will added.

Kit managed another small laugh. “Well, what can I tell you, William? I’ve always been bad.”

Will raised his eyebrows at him; and next he went down, without warning, encompassed Kit’s length in his mouth, careful to keep his teeth out of it. From above him he heard a small, whispered “ _fuck_ ” in an almost awestruck tone of voice; and it got Will painfully hard in the jeans he was still wearing, to know that he was _affecting_ Kit, to know that he was _getting_ to him. It made him want to go further, to drive Kit out of his mind in all the ways he knew how, even if it would take him longer than just tonight, longer than ten nights, or a hundred. If Kit never stopped making the little noises he was making right now, Will would gladly spend an eternity between his legs.

It was a shocking thought.

Kit’s hands were in Will’s hair, a little desperate in the way they tried _not_ to force him down as he established a rhythm and a degree of suction that wouldn’t make his jaw hurt in less than a minute; and his hands pushed Kit’s hips down, all sharp angles of bones under his palms, so he could go deeper.

He lost himself in the up and down, the feel of Kit against his palate, the soft moans of pleasure around him; and it felt like an eternity had passed, or maybe no time at all, when Kit said: “Stop.”

Will immediately let up on him, lifting his head, slightly alarmed by his tone of voice. But Kit didn’t look uncomfortable. Rather…turned on to the point of incoherence. His blue eyes had become vast, black pools and his lips were redder than Will had ever seen them.

With a decisive pull he brought Will up by his shoulders and kissed him, hard, sucking on his tongue, while his hand moved to the fastening of Will’s jeans, opening first the button, then the zipper, then slipping inside his boxer shorts.

When his long fingers enclosed Will’s cock, it was like an electric shock, and Will felt a little embarrassed at the low moan this simple touch elicited from his throat.

Kit didn’t seem to mind. “ _Heavens_ , you’re hard,” he breathed against Will’s mouth, nipping at his lip.

“You needn’t have stopped me,” Will answered. “And if you keep touching me like this, I’m not sure I’ll last.”

Kit grinned. “That would be a crying shame. I’d rather have this…” The tips of his fingers gave a light, teasing upward stroke along Will’s cock. “…inside me.”

“ _Christ._ ”

“Just _Kit_ will do, thank you.”

“Smug bastard,” Will said, no bite in his words.

“You like it.”

“I do,” Will conceded. “A little.”

That seemed to take Kit by surprise, because he didn’t really offer a retort. Instead he started tugging at Will’s jeans; and together they managed to peel them off, followed by his boxers. They were both naked now, and the touch of skin on skin was glorious in its simplicity. Kissing happened, again, and a little intermittent rubbing and grinding, until Will was sure that he’d come, if he couldn’t distract himself from Kit’s mouth and hands in the span of the next two minutes; and thus, he let go of Kit, rather unwillingly, and looked him in the eye.

“If you want me to commence anything, before my capacity for pleasure reaches its limits, I’m going to need supplies. Now.”

“I _do_ want you to commence, desperately,” Kit gave back and stretched out his hand towards the drawer on his non-existent roommate’s nightstand, opening it and pulling a tube of KY and a condom out. He pressed both in Will’s hand with an enticing smile.

“Is this to your satisfaction?”

Will smiled back. “It will be.”

Kit laughed, and pulled Will down again, to kiss him once more, deeply, before he let him go. “How do you want me?” he said, tilting his head. “Back up?”

“As you are,” Will said, and even though he hadn’t really thought about it, had only thought _I want to look at his face when he loses himself,_ it rang true in other ways, too. Something flashed through Kit’s eyes, and for a moment there was this indecipherable expression again; but then he smiled, grabbed the cushion beside his head and pushed it under his hips, which was, indeed, a lot more comfortable for everybody involved, access-wise.

Will remembered when he had done this the first time after Jamie had asked him to, and what terrible nervousness that had caused him, the constant, gnawing fear that he might do something wrong and hurt him; despite the fact that Jamie had never really hurt _him,_ when he’d fucked him. It had gotten a lot better from then on in, more practised and less awkward; and Will was glad about that now, glad about his – however limited – knowledge of another man’s body, and of what would and wouldn’t hurt. It was all familiar to him, the coolness of the lube, the slight resistance of the entrance, the velvet furnace inside, and the pleasure his finger could cause by crooking in the right spot.

Kit was hard and turned on and had experience, and that really made things a lot easier. He yielded to Will’s touch in no time, and on the second finger in he started giving those small, pleasure-ridden noises again, the ones that had driven Will almost out of his mind earlier, and now made his neglected cock jerk hard against the bedsheets. Adding the third finger stretched his patience to its limits, but the last thing Will wanted was causing Kit pain…

“ _William_ ,” Kit groaned, and it sounded utterly salacious and utterly exasperated at the same time. “I swear to God, if you don’t fuck me in the next five minutes, I _will_ kill you.”

Will couldn’t help but grin, wiping his fingers on the sheets before he rolled the condom on. He was a little nervous when he positioned himself in between Kit’s legs, and the fact that he was aroused beyond imagination didn’t really help – but he’d come this far, and Kit wanted this, Kit wanted _him,_ he’d said as much; and with that thought in mind, Will pushed forward. Slowly.

Kit threw his head back, and Will saw a line of discomfort around his mouth for a few seconds, before it smoothed out, and his whole expression relaxed. He had to collect his senses, caught, as he was, in the tight heat of Kit’s body, had to actively keep from pushing in and surrounding himself completely with that heat in just one rough slide.

He waited, until Kit’s eyes opened, bright with lust and pleasure. “Come here,” he said. Will obliged, came down to taste his lips; and Kit’s hips made a sharp, abrupt upwards movement, seating Will, at once, as deep inside him as he would go, and forcing a moan from his throat.

“That’s more like it,” Kit breathed. “Now go on. You won’t hurt me.”

His fingers wound into Will’s hair, dragging at his curls, while his other hand grabbed onto Will’s lower back; and Will allowed the beast that was scratching at his innards to take the reins, allowed his patience to evaporate, and started fucking Kit in earnest, with deep, long strokes. He angled Kit’s hips a little, and Kit groaned, when Will found his sweet spot, and once more when Will pushed a hand down between them to take hold of Kit’s leaking cock.

Will could already feel the precursors of his orgasm erupting in small electric sparks along his spine, and he resolved himself to hold out just a little longer. He wanted to bring Kit over the edge before getting there himself, wanted to _see_ him.

His hand wandered into Kit’s hair, a mirror gesture to Kit’s own, and for a moment it seemed like they weren’t moving at all, like time had come to a screeching halt around them, so they could look at each other, _really_ look –  and Will saw them both from someplace beside or above them, two parts of the same jagged puzzle in an unexpectedly perfect fit, saw Kit’s eyes and the pinkness of his mouth and the emotion behind it all, the vulnerability. The honesty.

“Kit,” he said, and then he was coming, despite himself, surrounded and encompassed by Kit’s heat, his entire being reduced to a lightning flash of pleasure that forced his mouth open and his head back; but the remains of his consciousness indicated to him that Kit was coming, too, coating their stomachs and chests with his release, his nails sinking into Will’s flesh, holding on for the long way down.


	4. Butterflies in the Desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot has arrived...

They plummeted down on the mattress, a heap of satiety, and remained there for the time being. Will was only slowly regaining command over his thoughts, and moving – in any shape or form – was simply impossible to him. He lazily kissed Kit’s shoulder, because that was the only part of him he could reach at the moment; and Kit was humming something that Will soon recognised as an ABBA song.

He didn’t comment on it.

After a while Kit fell quiet and started moving, off the bed. He took the used condom with him, tied it up and marched over to the sink, where he unceremoniously disposed of it in a small dustbin. Will couldn’t help but watch the hypnotic play of shadows on Kit’s skin, traced the sleek lines of his naked body with his eyes as he poured himself a glass of water in the sink and emptied it in one long draught, then grabbed a bunch of tissues out of a box and wiped himself down, throwing that box on the bed next to Will as soon as he was done, before he walked towards his phone and checked his messages.

It felt oddly intimate to lie here and see him do these mundane, private things; and while Will made use of the tissues himself, he realised that he was unsure of what to do…if this was the right time to leave. He had almost made the decision to get up, get dressed and walk out, quietly, when Kit threw his phone aside and smiled at him.

“You haven’t finished your drink,” he said, nodding towards Will’s glass of _Glenmorangie_ on the floor next to the bed.

“You didn’t exactly give me the chance to,” Will retorted with a smile, and bowed to get it. He was somewhat grateful for the extra adjustment-time Kit was granting him here.

Though he knew that what had happened between them was a one-time-thing, a small intermezzo among two people who knew each other from uni, and that didn’t exactly bother him, either, it was still a little…strange. Will had never had a one-night-stand before, and he found that he didn’t much like this aftermath-situation. It was awkward and unpleasant, having been connected to somebody flesh-to-flesh only a few minutes ago, and then not quite knowing how long they wanted him around after.

Maybe he should just play through it with some unassuming conversation and then make a quick exit. That was probably the best version of events for both of them.

“It’s…unusual to have an initial for your nickname on your personal effects,” he said.

Kit looked at him and lifted an eyebrow. “It is. But since neither the lighter nor the cigarette case are mine, that happens to be merely a neat coincidence.”

“Then whose are they?”

Kit’s face took on a stony expression, and Will bit his lip. _So much for unassuming conversation._

“You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to,” he added, before the silence became too stifling.

Kit looked at him for a moment, then kneeled down to open his secret whisky stash and pulled out the _Lagavulin_ again, pouring himself a generous amount.

“The _K_ stands for _Knightsbridge,_ and the _C_ for _Catherine._ Name, maiden name, surname. Catherine Knightsbridge Marlowe. My mother.” He didn’t look at Will while he was talking; and when he had finished, he took a long swig from his whisky and sat down on the bed opposite Will. “I’m not going to unpack the sob story of my difficult childhood here, so don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Will said, staggered and a little overwhelmed by the information Kit _had_ given him. “I’d much rather know about what you’re writing on.”

That sent a flickering smile over Kit’s face. “A play. About a man losing his soul in the pursuit of knowledge. Progress is slow, however. Too slow.” There was something pained around his eyes, for a split second, and Will had the sudden need to go over to him and embrace him. But he _couldn’t_ , because Kit would misinterpret the gesture, and shove him away; and for a few moments the small stretch of blue carpet between their respective beds felt as wide and unbridgeable to Will as the Pacific Ocean.

“What happens to his soul?” Will finally asked, in an attempt to keep the conversation flowing.

“He sells it to the Devil. Who is a metaphor, of course, the manifestation of greed and immorality. The interactions are a ton of fun to write, I must admit. Boundless possibilities for subtext.” Kit sighed. “But the story isn’t exactly original. I stole it from Goethe.”

Will shook his head. “Originality is overrated. I steal 90% of my characters from somewhere else. It’s what I _do_ with them that counts. Certain archetypes and plot points have to be accepted as repetitive, because human behaviour hardly changes that much. Look at _Romeo and Juliet_. How many starcrossed lovers have you seen in movies all over the world? Millions. It’s not a new story. But it’s _my_ voice telling it.”

Kit surveyed him, curiously. “ _Infinite riches in a little room,”_ he said. “Wherever did you pick up your confidence, William?”

Will blushed. “Years of training.”

Kit cocked his head. “No,” he said, thoughtfully. “I think that’s just who you are.” His expression turned serious all of a sudden. “Don’t let anybody take that away from you, do you hear me? It’s yours. Nobody else’s. You’re not a commodity to be taken advantage of. By anybody.”

Will was a little shocked by Kit’s insistent tone of voice, and he nodded for lack of a better reaction. More questions were burning on his tongue, inept, clumsy questions; and one of them made it over his lips before he could stop himself.

“Why are you telling me this?”

It took Kit a while to answer, but answer he did, eventually, which was more than Will had hoped for.

“I have a t-shirt for that experience, too. Right next to the one that says _I’ve been on crack once._ ”

“Who…?” Will began, and then broke off, because this was an even more inappropriate question.

To his surprise, Kit laughed, albeit mirthlessly. “Oh, it was long ago. In another country. And besides – the fucker is dead.”

Will’s eyes involuntarily wandered over Kit’s shoulder to the old-fashioned gyve that was tattooed on his left upper arm. The lines of it were more faded than those of his other tattoos, and Will reckoned it was at least a few years old. The drawn metal band was broken in the middle, as if the gyve had been pried open where somebody had violently freed himself.

Will looked away again, because he could feel Kit’s eyes on his face, having followed the path his attention had taken.

“You’re very observant,” Kit said, without any tell-tale emotion in his voice. “Do you want to know what the others mean?”

Will mustered the courage to lift his gaze and return Kit’s look. His eyes were bluer and deeper than Will had seen them until now.

“Yes,” he said, almost too quietly, but Kit had heard him.

“The snake-anchor,” Kit touched his right upper arm. “Find the right places and the right people. Be clever about it.” His hand moved on to the swallow in his elbow. “But never sacrifice your freedom.” Kit’s fingers found the skull on the right side of his chest. “You’re not immortal. Keep that in mind when you’re in danger of making another fucking stupid decision. And…” He stroked the bleeding heart next to the skull. Only now did Will really take note of the butterfly that was hovering over it like a guardian spirit. “…don’t forget your passions. The things that you _want_ to live for, that keep your heart from drying up. Art. Music. Writing. Human connection. The butterflies in the desert.” His hand slipped down to its final destination. “The spider…I just thought it would look cool on me. Which it absolutely does.”

He looked back up at Will with a half-apologetic smile; and Will couldn’t tell where his sudden bravery came from, but a second later he was on his feet, walked over to Kit, and only came to a halt when he stood right between his legs. He lifted Kit’s chin with his finger, beyond thought, and Kit let it happen, let Will look him in the eye and find their connection there, a brimming thread of kindred ideas; and then Will kissed him, with no expectation of being kissed back.

But Kit _did_ kiss back, his arms around Will’s waist, pulling him closer, and it felt like this was really their first kiss, despite everything that had happened before, what their first kiss _should_ have been; two beings that looked at each other with their minds, not just their eyes, who _understood_ what they were looking at and found it beautiful.

When they let go again, something between them had shifted. The nervousness, the precarious pitfalls of conversation, the thoughts of _Should I leave now?_ had been driven out of the room; and for the first time Will felt like he knew where they stood. Or, at least, where they _didn’t_ stand anymore; even before Kit opened his mouth to speak.

“Are you staying?”

Will nodded, wordlessly, and Kit pulled him down again.

He didn’t let go for quite a while.

 

***

 

Will was woken by an insistent knocking sound, and a muffled voice saying “Kit” repeatedly in an urgent tone of voice.

Behind him, something moved; and it was only then that he remembered where he was…and with whom. Kit had one sleep-heavy arm slung around Will’s waist, and it was dark outside – too dark to be morning. The lamp on the nightstand across the room was still burning, and Kit’s warm breath brushed Will’s shoulder, when he raised himself up on his elbow.

“What the hell is going on?” he murmured. His voice was rough around the edges in a way that sent a pleasant, pulling sensation to Will’s stomach, despite the fact that he wasn’t fully awake yet. It brought back memories of the evening, of the dark arousal in Kit’s eyes, the sharpness of his breath when Will had swallowed him down, the drag of his fingers in Will’s hair…

“Late night gallants?” Will offered, his own voice still low with sleep, and rolled around, until Kit came into focus. His hair was pillow-muddled and his eyes were narrowed, fixed to the door. The expression inside them worried Will a little in its seriousness.

“No,” Kit said. “That’s Tommy.”

And with one fluid movement he discarded his part of the blanket and leapt over Will, sprinting towards the door, which he opened without taking the time to put at least a pair of briefs on.

“Tommy” he greeted the visitor, as if it was the most normal thing to receive people in your room at three or four in the morning, stark-naked. Or maybe it was, in the class of society Kit belonged to. Not that Will would know.

He stretched his head a little, but he couldn’t see the visitor from his vantage point on the bed; and he couldn’t get up as he was, either; since, in contrast to Kit, he _did_ possess a little bit of modesty.

However, he recognised Thomas Walsingham’s voice.

“I’m sorry for the lateness – were you in the middle of something?”

“Yes. In the middle of sleeping, to be precise.”

And then Walsingham entered the room behind Kit, closing the door, and spotted Will under the covers, who wanted – for a moment – nothing more than an abyss to open up under him and swallow him whole.

“Evening, Thomas,” he said, fairly certain that his face had taken on the colour of ripe tomatoes.

“Evening.” Walsingham surveyed him, like he wasn’t entirely sure where to place him, before Kit distracted them both with a characteristic demonstration of tactfulness and grace.

“We were done fucking before you came in.”

“Figures. Isn’t he the writer you talked about? William…?”

“Shakespeare,” Kit added, before Will could. “Yes. Now that we’re all introduced to each other, would you mind telling me why you’re here? I’d love to go back to sleep as soon as possible.”

Walsingham’s face took on a deadly serious expression, like he’d suddenly remembered what he was doing here. “Well, you better get dressed, Kit. I need your expertise. We’ve got another one.”

Kit’s face fell; and then he was scrambling for his jeans and the shirt he’d discarded close to the other bed. “Who? When?”

“Lizzy. Tonight. She doesn’t remember shit, but she’s barely coherent anyway. Alastair sent me to get you. If we have to call the ambulance, she’s in big fucking trouble; so we’d rather not.”

Kit pulled the shirt over his head. “She’s at your house?”

“Yeah; Alastair lost track of her at the club, and when he got back he found her in front of Queens’, almost comatose. He didn’t know who else to call.”

“Fuck.” Kit ripped his phone off its charger cable and shoved it in his pocket. “Is it the same as the last two times?”  
“Seems like.”

Kit’s eyes were burning through the room, two stinging points of blue. “Whoever is doing this…”

“Worry about that later. Worry about Lizzy first.” Walsingham’s hand was on Kit’s shoulder, squeezing, and Will, for all the little he had worked out from their conversation about the emergency he was witnessing here, felt the sudden need to help.

“Can I do anything?” he asked, and Walsingham turned to him, as if he’d just remembered that Will was still there.

“Yes. Don’t say a single word about this to anybody.”

Will nodded and looked at Kit. “Kit, if you need-”

“I’m fine,” Kit interrupted him, brusquely, before he added in a softer tone of voice: “I’ll see you later.” Then he turned back to Walsingham. “Let’s go.”

And off they went, closing the door behind them with a definitive click, and leaving Will alone in a jumble of confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thou hast committed fornication - but that was in another country. And besides, the wench is dead."  
> \- Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta


	5. A New Christopher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of drug-related death.

The sudden quietness and solitude of Kit’s room made Will uneasy. Apart from feeling quite useless as it was, considering he hadn’t been let in on – well, whatever it was they hadn’t let him in on, never mind accepting his help –, he really wasn’t sure whether he was still welcome here, when Kit came back. On top of that, there were about a hundred questions whirling through his brain at breakneck speed, each, once answered, raising even more questions; and Will sat for quite a while, trying to get the information he _had_ into a coherent order.

There had obviously been an emergency of some kind, a comatose person Kit and Walsingham both knew – drugged, perhaps? Her name was Lizzy…and Will was sure he had seen somebody who bore that name in Walsingham’s company many times, a waifishly beautiful redhead with a taste for expensive shoes and dresses. She had a boyfriend, who looked exactly like – well, like the kind of boyfriend a girl like Lizzy would have; and Will wasn’t too sure about _his_ name, but it might as well be _Alastair_.

So, Lizzy and Alastair had been at an unnamed club, Lizzy had disappeared, and when she’d turned up again, it had been in a rather unconscious state. Also, she hadn’t been the first one this had happened to – or at least not the first one Kit knew of.

Will thought back to the angry expression in Kit’s eyes: _Whoever is doing this…_

It seemed like Kit had the suspicion that there was a modus operandi behind this, a single person who was systematically drugging people. And if Will wasn’t mistaken, systematically drugging people, or maybe even systematically drugging them and raping them, was a heavily punishable offense in the UK. So, why the hell hadn’t Kit told the police yet?

_If we have to call the ambulance, she’s in big fucking trouble…_

Of course, that _trouble_ would be even worse with the police involved. There would be press, and victim-blaming, and – most likely – investigations on every member of Queens’ college. Which wasn’t so much a problem if you were as unassumingly middle class as Will’s family. But surely more of one if you were _High Society_ , capital letters, and an aristocrat, and your family had a reputation to uphold. It made sense that Kit’s friends would rather solve these things among themselves.

So far, so comprehensible.

But what in the _fuck_ did they need Kit’s _expertise_ for? What even _was_ his expertise?

If Will was guessing right, it was up to Kit to do something about Lizzy’s current state…or at least assess it. Did Kit have a secret identity as a medical professional? Or was he just – Will almost didn’t dare think it – the most _experienced_ when it came to drugs, so he knew whether another drugged-out person needed acute medical attention, or if they could be brought down with merely a good night’s sleep and a bunch of cold compresses?

He shook his head. These were questions only Kit could answer…supposing that he wasn’t going to throw Will out as soon as he returned and revert back to pointedly ignoring him.

Will’s own wistfulness at the thought surprised him. It wasn’t like he would _miss_ Kit, if that happened. _How could I,_ he reminded himself, _I don’t even KNOW him. He’s not my FRIEND. Not even my fuck-buddy. Just…_

Well, just…what, exactly? One-night-stand didn’t really cut it anymore; it was too hollow a word to describe what had happened here a few hours ago. There had been a visceral connection between them, something Will had hardly felt before with _anyone_ , really: an understanding that completely disregarded the fact that they were so unlike each other in so many respects.

Will realised that he hadn’t been wrong, but also not entirely correct about the reason he had hated Kit so much in the first place: Kit _was_ somebody he could like. And now that he’d seen him for what he actually was, had caught a glimpse of what he was hiding beneath his shield of arrogance and cynicism – things like attentiveness, empathy, honesty – Will’s previous loathing struck him as mere overcompensation for the fact that, in actuality, he hadn’t wanted to like the person he’d _thought_ Kit was…

And _still_ he hadn’t found a word that would describe his feelings towards him in a fitting way.

A line from one of his plays sprang to Will’s mind, rather helpfully. _What is a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet._

Maybe he didn’t need a name right now. Maybe he just needed to take things as they were and see what would happen.

His eyes wandered towards the window; and he could see the first grey harbingers of dawn colouring the sky. He really hoped Kit was okay.

 

***

 

The sky had turned a flaming orange when Kit came back, the opening _click_ of the door too loud in the silence. Will put the book he had spontaneously borrowed from Kit’s shelf – a well-thumbed edition of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ – aside and sat up from where he’d been lying on the bed, fully dressed. Kit was standing in the doorframe, a gauntness to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before.

“You’re still here,” he said, his voice oddly empty. “You’ve…made the beds.”  
That, indeed, Will had, in an attempt to work through his nervous energy, before he’d grabbed the book to distract himself.

“I thought… Well. I needed something to do. So …” He looked Kit over. “…I should have left, shouldn’t I?”

“I certainly thought you would have, by now,” Kit retorted. There was nothing in his voice that indicated his thoughts on the matter. But he didn’t make any attempts to kick Will out of the room, which Will rated as a good sign. Instead he just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Will made a small tapping motion on the bed next to him, not unlike the one Kit had made on the edge of the fountain at Walsingham’s house.

To his surprise Kit actually moved over and sat down next to him, in a way that Will could only describe as remote-controlled. He didn’t look like he was going to speak any time soon, so Will started talking instead, getting a few of the things he’d resolved for himself in the last two hours off his chest.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened. Really. That’s between your friends and yourself. But if you want to, you can. I’ll keep my mouth shut about it. And, just so you know…I was judging you unfairly, when we first spoke. I thought myself immune to prejudice, and that’s a form of arrogance, too. The worst one, probably. I’m sorry for that.”

There was a long silence between them, and Will couldn’t think of any words to fill it with; so he sat through it.

Endured it.

“Apologies accepted, though unnecessary. You weren’t exactly _wrong_ about me,” Kit finally gave back. Will looked at him and saw an ever so miniscule upwards curve in his lips, a spatter of the familiar mischief in his eye. “I _am_ rich and good-looking. Though my poetry is a little better than just solid.”

Will shook his head at him, half laughing. “You are merciless, aren’t you?”

“I thought you’d figured that out by now,” Kit said. The spark in his eyes had disappeared again, and he was staring at the wall in front of them.

A few more seconds passed between them, without words.

“There was this guy,” Kit suddenly said, still looking at the wall. “Let’s call him _Dave_. American. Bloody brilliant musician. Kind of famous, too. I met him when I was nineteen, at one of his gigs in London. I was a fairly good singer myself, back then, played the guitar, _dreamed_ of making music professionally, and I had friends who could get me into all the concerts my parents disapproved of. Dave was the nicest _fucking_ person I’d ever met, and, God, he was gorgeous. Dark hair, green eyes, not unlike you, when I think about it. Taller, though. And pierced in all the right places. I was completely infatuated _,_ the way nineteen-year-olds are, rose-coloured glasses in abundance, and the fact that a thirty-year-old musician hitting on a teenager was as red a flag as they came didn’t even register with me. So, I ran away with him. To LA.” Kit huffed, like he still couldn’t believe he’d done that, and Will stared at him. “He promised me the world,” Kit continued. “More than that, he promised me my own album, my own career, far away from my parents who wanted to send me to Cambridge. _Stuck-up-ville_ he used to call it, _It will suck the life out of you. You were born for a different purpose._ That was, you must know, when I still believed in something like ‘purpose’. It took me about a year to understand what was really going on: Dave didn’t want a _career_ for me. Dave didn’t want to give me a _new life_. He never even let me see the inside of a studio. No, Dave wanted to have me around to fuck and prop up his needy ego with, that got even needier when his career declined. I stayed with him, of course, supported him. Watched him use up all his money on cocaine, crack, crystal, heroin. And why? Because I _loved_ him.”

Kit said the word _loved_ like it had spikes that might hurt his tongue, if he didn’t get rid of it fast.

“I hardly ever did any of the hard drugs, myself, because I was too much of a girl’s blouse to stick a needle in my veins. Coke, a few times. Crack, once. Heroin – never.”

He fell silent for a moment.

“Dave died of an overdose on Christmas Eve 2015, and suddenly, I was alone. Calling my parents was ridiculously humiliating. They sent me to _rehab,_ can you believe it? I never had a drug problem, but for them it was like three months in the countryside could…cleanse me of my sins, perhaps. Of my _badness._ Eventually, they had to take me back. I’m an only child, it wasn’t like they could replace me, a much as they might have wanted to. And now, three years later, here I am. A new Christopher. Doing exactly what his parents want from him.” He huffed again. “God, I need a cigarette.”

“I had no idea,” Will said, quietly.

Kit turned to him, then, calm and composed as ever. “If I wanted pity for my tragic past, I would have told a talk show host, not you.”

“Would it kill you to switch off the gallows humour for two seconds?”

“Yes,” Kit said, without smiling. “But that’s beside the point.”

Will alternated heavily between the need to shake some sense into him or pull him into a long hug for a few seconds, but then decided on neither, because something had come to his mind; an answer to one of the questions that had been fluttering around in his head ever since Walsingham had planted it there two hours ago.

“Your _expertise…_ That’s what Thomas meant, wasn’t it? Your expertise in…”

“…intoxication. Yes. After I’ve watched somebody take every drug under the sun for half a year straight, _and_ suffer the consequences, I could hardly not be an expert.”

“That means, Lizzy was drugged?”

“Somebody administered a generous dosage of opiates to her system. Fortunately, it wasn’t quite enough to kill her. She’ll suffer a few unpleasant withdrawal symptoms, once it wears off, but she won’t be going to the hospital. Lucky her.”

Kit’s last two words were dripping with sarcasm, and Will swallowed hard.

“She’s not the first one, is she?”

Kit sighed. “Sometimes I really wish you wouldn’t pay so much attention, William. No, she’s not the first. What happened to her also happened to Emily and Audrey, just a few weeks ago, in an eerily similar way.”

“Which is why you think there’s a single person behind it, with a motive and everything. And you and Thomas won’t go to the police, because people’s reputations are at stake.”

“…And because the police are incompetent with crimes like this. They’ll blow up some dust, cause problems for the people who _aren’t_ at fault, and never find the bugger who did it.”

“Fair enough,” Will said. “What will you do instead?”

He knew the answer before Kit gave it.

“Find him ourselves. Make him wish he had never been born.”

Will surveyed him, the austerity of his mouth, the sharp wrinkle between his eyebrows, and knew that he was entirely serious. “These girls must be very close to you.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “I barely know them. But Tommy does. Audrey is his ex. Lizzy is one of his best friends. I can’t leave him in the lurch.”

“You’re doing this for Tommy then?”

“Mostly.” Kit blinked at Will. “Tommy is one of three people who know the full story about my little stint in California. The second one wasn’t listening when I told her, but that was to be expected. The third one is you.”  
Will was speechless for a few moments.

“Why?” he asked, less than coherent.

“Oh, Catherine hardly listens to anything I say,” Kit said, in a rather flippant tone of voice. “Nothing new there.”

“No, that’s not what I…why – why tell it to me?” Will realised that he was probably being rude. But the need to know Kit’s answer was stronger than Will’s compulsive urge for politeness.

A small wave of relief ran through his stomach, when Kit tilted his head and thoughtfully smiled at him. “An excellent question whose answer eludes me. I haven’t, however, regretted it. Yet.”

 “I’ll make sure you won’t _ever_ regret it,” Will said, full of resolution.

Kit didn’t answer, but he looked at Will for a long while. The first rays of sunlight were falling through the window and his hair reflected them back, across the room, burnished gold.

Will felt a strange tug along his insides at the view, that had very little to do with desire and a whole lot more with something else.

“I…” he began, but he found himself incapable of putting the feeling into words.

“What is it, William?”

Will shook his head at his own sudden lack of eloquence. “I just…don’t you think it’s time you called me _Will_?”

“Oh, but I’ve grown rather fond of _William_ ,” Kit said, and shifted on the bed, until he was straddling Will, a pensive smile on his lips. Will’s arms slung around his back, instinctively; and it didn’t feel new to have Kit like this, his arms around Will’s neck, his weight in Will’s lap, as if they’d done this many times before. Kit’s face was painted in shadows, only his hair still had the golden glow of the morning sun in it, rising behind him.

“William,” he repeated, tasting the name like a delicacy. “You wanted to say something.”

Will nodded, slowly, entranced by the sharp lines of Kit’s face, the liveliness of his eyes.

“What was it?” Kit insisted, and Will let his hand wander up to caress the side of Kit’s face that lay entirely in the dark.

“I can’t remember,” Will said. “Or, rather, I can’t find the words.”

Kit sighed. “Writer’s block. The old fiend.” He bowed down to kiss Will. “Will you tell me when you’ve found them?”

Will smiled at him. “You’ll be the first to know, Kit. I promise.”


	6. Charm Offensive

On Monday morning, Will’s telephone gave a soft _bling_ , when he was just getting ready for breakfast. The display showed one new message.

 **Alice B:**   _can we talk? dining hall?_

Will quickly typed a reply.

_Sure._

When he got down to Cripps Hall, he found Alice at their usual table with two steaming mugs in front of her, and a conscience-stricken look on her face.

“I got you some coffee,” she said, instead of a greeting, and pushed one of the cups over the table towards Will. It smelled heavenly, and the colour of its contents indicated that Alice had put some milk in, just like Will preferred it.

“Morning, Alice,” he said, sitting down on the chair opposite her, and accepting the offered beverage with a small smile. For a moment they just looked at each other over the rims of their respective mugs, stalling the conversation; until Alice finally opened her mouth to speak.

“I behaved like a complete turnip on Friday,” she said, with emphasis on the word _turnip._ “To the point of ridiculousness. I was unfair and intermeddle-y and not rational at all, and, also, I lied when I said you’re not dependable. You’re actually one of the most dependable people I know. I absolutely took issue with something I shouldn’t have taken issue with. If you want to snog Christopher Marlowe, then you go snog Christopher Marlowe, and it’s not my place to be mad about it. I’m really sorry about that. And I’m also really sorry about not answering your calls. And your messages. And your facebook-“

“That’s quite enough of you putting yourself down, Alice,” Will interrupted her. “I accept your apology. Actually, I accepted it about twenty minutes ago, when your message showed up on my phone. And – in your defence – me snogging Christopher Marlowe at Walsingham’s party was a jarring break of consistency on every imaginable level.”

Alice was smiling at him, grateful. “Thank you, Will.”

“So, how was your Saturday? Did you visit your parents? You weren’t around.”

Another flash of guilt flickered through Alice’s eyes. “Richard, Molly and I spent the day at Rob’s. He has his own cottage in town, and he invited us for brunch. Originally I wanted to take you with, but-“

“That beastly snoggery intercepted.”

Alice giggled. “God, the way you phrase things. But yes, it kind of did.” Her eyes were gleaming. “You really missed out on something, Will. His gardens – he’s cultivating _twenty-three_ different types of roses. And he bakes some mean scones.”

“Girlfriend?” Will asked, though he could already read the answer in Alice’s impish smile.

“Nope. And…well, I thought a _theology_ student might be a little weird and preachy, but he has a truly wicked sense of humour.”

“Are you going to meet him again?”

“Tonight, probably. We want to go for karaoke.”

“Cool,” Will said, and actually meant it.

“Do you want to come with? You could be my wingman…”

Will fidgeted with the handle of his mug. “Alice, I…I’d love to, but-“

“He already has a date,” said a voice behind Will; and then Kit was sliding in next to him, nothing short of a _vision_ in his dark blue jeans and YSL jumper, golden hair tied at his neck, setting a bowl of grapes down on the table. “With the elusive and stunningly attractive Christopher Marlowe.”

His arm went around Will’s waist, like it was the most normal thing in the world; and Alice’s eyes became comically wide, as they ping-ponged between Kit and Will, trying to assess if they were joking.

Will could feel the heat in his cheeks, when he added: “Umm, yes. That’s what I was going to tell you. Just a little less…theatrically.”

He sent Kit a small glare, that Kit acknowledged with a raised eyebrow and a shit-eating grin.

“I’m very open to a double-date,” he said, turning back to Alice and stretching out his hand. “Kit Marlowe. Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Burbage.”

“Alice,” Alice corrected him, still somewhat stunned as she took his hand. “Nice to…” She shook her head like a dog out of water and let go of Kit. “Will…this might be the time to ask you, what _you’ve_ been doing this weekend.”

“Me,” Kit answered, leaning back and popping a grape in his mouth. “Karaoke sounds fun, by the way; I’m all for it.”

Alice, having sufficiently collected her wits, blinked at Will, like she hadn’t heard Kit’s comment. “I’m going to get myself some more coffee. And then you’ll be answering a few questions, Will Shakespeare.”

Will nodded, and Alice got up, throwing Kit a sceptical look, before she disappeared in the direction of the coffee machine.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Will asked Kit, holding his voice down to a whisper, his eyebrows furled in a full-force glower.

“Being polite,” Kit retorted. “And – out of the goodness of my heart – forcing you to be straightforward with her, so your unrealistic endeavour of keeping her as a ‘bestie’ _might_ become a little less unrealistic.” He put _bestie_ in finger-quotation-marks.

“That’s very nice of you, but was it necessary to be _this_ straightforward? She almost suffered a heart attack!”

“If you wanted somebody _less_ straightforward, you shouldn’t have chosen me as your weeknight date. And besides, you’re being needlessly dramatic about this.”

“You’re one to talk,” Will said; and then Kit murdered any further complaints that might have followed with a kiss. Not a kiss of the smack-on-the-lips-variety, either. A long, lingering, _shit-I’m-getting-hard-in-my-jeans_ kiss, that left Will panting and red-faced and dissatisfied in the worst way possible.

“Cheater,” he said, but Kit simply smiled at him.

“You can thank me later, William.”

They kept their hands and mouths to themselves until Alice returned, but Will couldn’t help noticing that they’d drawn the attention of half the cafeteria, and the part-disgusted, part-jealous gazes made him slightly queasy. Finally, Alice flopped down on her seat with a freshly filled mug of coffee, happily oblivious to what transgressions had been committed in her absence.

“Now, Will,” she said, firmly. “You’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

 

***

 

“So, he’s not a one-night-stand, not a friend with benefits, and he’s also not your boyfriend…how do you know he’s not your boyfriend?”

Will gave a mocking laugh. “Because he _isn’t._ We’ve known each other for two-and-a-half days, for Heaven’s sake! It’s not like we’re going to move in with each other next month!”

Alice desisted from answering and returned to fiddling with her mascara instead.

She had listened patiently to Will’s G-rated recount of the weekend over breakfast, laughed at Kit’s charmingly X-rated interjections, and in the end she had agreed to Kit’s suggestion and invited them to karaoke with Rob and her, if they both ‘behaved’. The conspiratorial smile Kit and Alice had given each other when Kit had offered his phone to her to type her number in had deeply worried Will, who couldn’t help but notice the sprouts of an unlikely alliance between the two of them. He’d felt utterly stupid for having cudgelled his brains over Alice and Kit _dis_ liking each other, and not taken into consideration the possibility that they’d end up liking each other _too much._ One more case of rotten judgement on his part. But then, Kit had been so uncharacteristically non-infuriating towards Alice this morning, that it had been basically impossible for her _not_ to like him…

By now it was close to 6 pm, the last half hour before their _double-date_ (a word Will had difficulties even _thinking_ ) was ticking away, and Will had rushed through his own getting-ready-programme in order to invade Alice’s room for a private debate about the state of affairs concerning Kit and himself.

“I don’t think him being your boyfriend is _that_ unrealistic,” Alice said. “But you’re right in taking it slow, Will. There’s absolutely no need to hurry. You’ll elope soon enough.”

“ _ALICE_!”

“I was joking.” She shook her head at him and went back to applying her mascara. “And I don’t understand how you could ever misjudge him as an arrogant pillock.”

Will raised his eyebrows so high that she _had to_ see it in her mirror, even from across the room.

“Okay. Well. I _do_ sort of understand it,” Alice relented. “He’s painfully upper class, a little feisty and he _can_ come across as rude. If you don’t know him, that is.”

“ _Feisty?_ You do realise he’s showing himself to you at his _best_ , right, Alice? He’s pulling off the full charm offensive on you.”

“And why, exactly, would he be doing that?”

“I…” Will truly didn’t have an answer to that. “Just believe me when I tell you that he _is_ nicer to you than to the average Joe. By a lot. Please.” His tone of voice had turned almost pleading, and Alice gracefully rolled her eyes.

“Fine. Back to the point: If Kit is not your one-night-stand, and also not your boyfriend, and not your FWB, then why not call him…your affair?”

Will sighed and let his head sink back against the wall he was leaning on. “I feel like that…doesn’t hit the right note. Believe me, I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I haven’t found an accurate description yet.”

Alice had finished with her mascara and entered the process of choosing a lipstick from her extensive collection. “Then forget the description. Far more important than finding a description is figuring out what you’re going to do about the two of you.”

“That’s what I need your advice on, Alice. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Mh. Well, let’s go about this systematically: You do like talking to him, don’t you?”

Will thought back to the verbal sparring matches Kit and he had staged in the last few days, Kit’s inspiring quick-wittedness, his self-deprecating humour, and – in contrast to all that – the jarringly solemn honesty he was capable of.

“I do.”

“And you like sleeping with him, too?”

It was difficult to keep the flow of unasked-for memories that flooded Will’s brain at bay. Sex with Kit was…hard to describe, really; and that meant something for somebody who’d been writing poems since he’d known how to hold a pen. The way he could lose himself in Kit…he’d hardly ever lost himself like that in _Jamie,_ the person he considered the first he’d ever been in love with.

“More than I should,” he gave back, quietly.

“And he makes you feel something?” Alice continued. She had interrupted her lipstick-search for the time being and was looking through the mirror straight at Will.

“He is… _endeared with all hearts, which I by lacking have supposed dead_ , ” Will said, a line that sprang to his mind on a whim. “ _The grave where buried love may live._ ”

There was a pause.

“You should write that down,” Alice said.

“I will. But it’s not like writing poetry about him is getting me anywhere, is it now?”

Alice smiled. “You might not want to hear this, but I think it _is_ actually getting you somewhere. As far as I’m concerned: If you like talking to Kit, and sleeping with Kit, and if he makes you _feel_ something, on top of that, keep him around and see where it leads you. There’s not much else you _can_ do, really.”

Will sighed. “It would be a whole lot easier, if I knew where _he_ stands on the matter.”

“Well, you can’t have your cake and eat it, too, Willie-boy. Old Chinese wisdom.”

“Chinese my arse,” he gave back, but he was smiling, and Alice was, too.

 

***

 

Kit and Rob Southwell were already waiting for them, chatting away, when they finally made it down to Mathematical Bridge; and Will had to agree with Alice: Rob was, indeed, a handsome bloke. Will had only caught a small glimpse of him back at Walsingham’s, but now that he could get a proper look at his strong jaw and nose, the full lips and blue eyes and the muscular arms under his long-sleeve shirt, he could see where Alice was coming from.

He told her as much, under his breath, and Alice giggled and poked him in the ribs. Will’s eyes moved over to Kit, then, and that made him stop in his tracks, because Kit…well, _Kit._ He’d dressed up, in dark skinny jeans and a black leather jacket that must have cost a fortune, beneath it an equally black shirt with _stitched flowers_ around the collar, of all things, buttoned down far enough to let some inked skin shine through. The outfit might have made a lesser man than Kit look absolutely ridiculous, but on him it merely underlined his soft-sharp beauty, adding to it an extravagant celebrity vibe, and the way the jeans hugged his legs and the gaping button row dared to reveal more skin made Will’s mouth go a little dry.

Alice’s face was glowing with a radiant smile, as she pulled Rob into a long hug; and Will stepped up to Kit, resting an indiscreet hand on his chest.

“You tempt a desperate man,” he said, and Kit grinned.

“I’ll have to keep you desperate a little longer,” he gave back. “Two or three hours, at least.”

Will leaned in as if to kiss him but stopped just short of his mouth. He could feel Kit’s breath hitch a little against his lower lip, when he whispered: “Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?”

  
Kit sighed. “What comfort to the wretched to have a companion in misery.”

He chased Will’s lips and kissed him, less deeply than on the breakfast table, but quite long enough to make him hope that the evening would pass by very, very swiftly.


	7. Bad Habits

“So how exactly did you two meet?” Rob asked, gesturing with his half-empty pint of draft beer between them. He had to shout, a little, over the off-tune singing of _Nothing Else Matters_ some middle-aged punter with disproportionate trust in his vocal abilities was currently doing on stage. Will saw Alice grinning into her Guinness, and he could feel his ears grow slightly warm around the tips.

“Uh…we…”

“It was very romantic,” Kit said, casually slinging an arm around Will’s shoulders. “We sat in a garden at a fountain under the night sky, contemplating the meaning of life...“

“And smoking weed,” Alice added with a wicked little bite to her lip.

“Shhhh,” Kit made, mock-scandalised. “He doesn’t need to know that.”

“So, you were smoking weed in a garden at a fountain together, and that’s how you fell in love?” Rob asked, slightly incredulous, but also _very_ intrigued.

Will flinched at the words _in love_ , and threw Kit a nervous glance, but Kit’s face showed nothing, save a perfectly open smile.

“Pretty much, yes. We also study together, but that is, in fact, the gist of it.”

That statement was such a juxtaposition to the sarcastic remark Will knew had to be _begging_ to jump out of Kit’s mouth at Rob’s comment that it made something inside him actively _cringe_. The feeling he’d started having this morning, when Kit had slid in next to him in the dining hall and invited himself to a double date with Alice and Rob, returned with a vengeance: Whatever Kit was doing here was _unreal_. And not the sort of unreal, where it might just as well be real, if you allowed yourself a little suspension of disbelief, either. Something was _off._ Like Kit was playing a role on stage, presenting to the world a distorted version of himself with only the occasional smattering of his real personality strewn in.

Will’s gaze found Alice’s over the table, in search for a like-minded spark of suspicion in her eye, but she was smiling at him, openly, like she couldn’t believe how lucky they both were – and Will realised, right then, that he was the only one at this table who’d noticed that Kit wasn’t…well, _Kit,_ today. He smiled back at Alice, painstakingly, and she raised her glass.

“To weed! And to falling in love!”

Rob and Kit chimed in with her silly toast, and Will clinked his glass with them, still trying to wrap his head around whatever Kit was playing at. There was an ulterior motive here. There _had_ to be.

“So – who of you is going to throw their hat in the ring for making an impression on that stage?” Alice asked, breezily. “ _You_ look like somebody who can sing.” She nodded at Kit, and Will felt Kit’s arm tighten around his shoulders.

“Alice, you do overestimate my considerable but occasionally limited abilities this time. I can’t, as a matter of fact, sing for _shit_.”

The way his voice strained on the last syllable, ever so slightly, despite the half-laugh he added to brush over it, made alarm bells go off in Will’s brain, and prompted him to look up at Kit’s face. There was something in his eyes, something very real and vulnerable, and Will felt the sudden need to intervene, before Alice could get another word in.

“I’ve heard him sing in the shower once, and you _really_ don’t want him up there, Alice. Seriously. The guy who just butchered _Metallica_? Sounds like Whitney Houston next to him.”

“Thanks for bruising my ego some more, _darling_ ,” Kit said. His voice sounded slightly indignant, but the press of his fingers on Will’s upper arm felt like an honest _thank you._

“Oh, wow,” Alice said. “Maybe we’ll better keep you off-stage then.” There was curiosity in her gaze, like she didn’t completely believe them, but she didn’t push it, and Will was infinitely grateful.

“Well,” Rob said, carefully. “I can sing. A little.”

“Oh, _please,_ ” Alice said. “I want to hear that!”

Rob gave her a little, private smile. “You really want to hear me sing?”  
“I want to hear that, too,” Kit added, his voice returned to that strange cheerful tone, and Rob shook his head self-consciously.

“Don’t laugh at me, though.”  
“No laughing. We promise,” Alice said, putting her hand over her heart.

Rob smiled at her again, sweetly, and took the booklet with the available karaoke tunes off the table to flick through it, Alice bowing over his shoulder to see better, an intimate touch to the back of his hand.

“While you figure that out, I’m going to indulge in some bad habits,” Kit said, and elegantly slid out of the bench, grabbing his jacket. He threw them a smile and made his way over to the door of the pub, cigarette case already in hand.

Will’s eyes reflexively glided to the place that Kit had just gotten up from, and he spotted Kit’s silver lighter, lying abandoned on the wooden bench.

_Bad habits. Right._

On a whim, he grabbed it, shoved it in his pocket, and stood. Alice looked at him, a questioning expression in her eyes; and Will pointed to his empty glass.

“Nature calls. But I’ll be right back, eagerly anticipating your choice of karaoke.”

Alice nodded, and went back to pondering over the booklet with Rob. She probably didn’t even notice that Will was leaving in the entirely wrong direction – and if she did, well, there was no harm in her thinking that Will might be stealing a kiss or two from Kit outside.

When he stepped through the door of the pub into the cool night air, he found Kit on the far corner of the building, close to the canal, half-turned away from the door, iPhone pressed to his ear, cigarette dangling unlit between his fingers. He ended his phone call two seconds later, without having noticed Will’s presence, and his posture remained tense, while he slipped the phone back into his jeans and started fiddling with the side pocket of his jacket. Will could pinpoint the exact moment when he noticed that his lighter was missing, because he turned around, eyes to the ground, _looking,_ and Will chose that moment to walk up to him and dangle it in his face.

“Looking for this?”

“Doting on me now, are we?” Kit asked, airily, snatched the lighter from Will’s fingers and snapped it open. His face gave nothing away as he set fire to the end of his cigarette.

“There he is again,” Will retorted. He could play this game, too, he’d just decided.

“Who are we talking about?” Kit asked.

“The Kit that can’t say _please_ and _thank you_. The Kit that tells you the truth, no matter how much you don’t want to hear it. You know. The real one.”

Kit blew out smoke. Calmly. His eyes looked like glaciers in the fragmented lights that radiated from the streetlamps.

“I’m merely on my best behaviour, William. Or would you rather me telling your friend to her face that she’s not very good at pretending she’s not into you anymore?”

“She’s…” Will’s voice left him for a moment, and Kit smiled, something mirthless in his gaze.

“Oh, come on. She’s completely overcompensating. You must be seeing that, too.”

“Stop,” Will interrupted him, his arms raised in frustration. “Just stop. This is not about Alice, or me. This is about you and the way you’ve been playing _theatre_ since about…mh, about ten, this morning. There was no _need_ for asking Alice to take us with, but you inserted yourself into the conversation, and you’re acting like my bloody _boyfriend_ now _,_ for some reason, and I don’t know you well, Kit Marlowe, but I know you well enough to have figured out that a) you’re not a _double-date_ kind of person and this is b) therefore not happening out of the goodness of your heart. There’s something you’re not telling me, and I’d really like to know what it is.”

Kit sighed and let his only-just-lit cigarette tumble to the ground, stepping on it. He moved into Will, then, smoothly, backing him against the wall of the building; and Will let it happen, took belated note of the liquid fire flooding his veins, a familiar side effect of Kit touching him like this. Kit kissed him, deep and slow, and Will let that happen, too, indulged them both for a little longer. When Kit tried to let go, however, Will’s hand shot up to grab at the lapels of his leather jacket, dragging him back in and keeping him close enough to feel his breath against his lips.

“How often have you gotten away with this, Kit?” he asked, quietly. “How often have people failed to see through you, because they just want you to _want_ them?” He could feel Kit’s breath hitch, slightly, could feel the strain of his body against him, flight-instinct taking over – which told him more about Kit’s current state of mind than Kit had probably meant to reveal. “It’s understandable,” he continued. “To want to be wanted by you, no matter the cost. I want you to want me, too. But I also happen to _like_ you. I want to understand you, Kit, and I don’t want you to _use_ me. So do me a favour, stop playing me for a fool and tell me what is going on _._ ”

For a moment Will was absolutely sure that Kit would shove him away. Sneer. Throw a punch. His body was still taut like a bowstring, but he didn’t budge, not even after Will had let go of his jacket and offered him his freedom.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally, very softly, and Will felt his muscles untense a little, as Kit’s forehead sank against his own, the lines of his body easing up, surrendering into Will. Will kept his eyes open, still intent on an answer, but allowed them both some time to breathe.

After a while Kit gave a self-deprecating huff and moved away far enough to look Will in the eye. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”

  
“I don’t care,” Will said, unflinching.

Kit sighed. “We found a common thread with our opioid-man. Whoever attacked Emily, Audrey and Lizzy must have met them at one of Tommy’s parties. Talked to them. Flirted with them, possibly. Then poisoned them. Tommy was digging around a little over the weekend, and it turns out they were each talking to the same bloke _exactly_ a week before they were poisoned: Rob Southwell.”

The implications of that took a moment to sink in – and when they did, they sparked a rising rush of fear in Will’s stomach.

“You mean Alice,” he said. “is in there with a _rapist_?”

“They weren’t raped. Just…overdosed on heroin,” Kit gave back.

“LIKE THAT MAKES IT ANY BETTER!”

“Shhh.” Kit pressed him back against the wall and shook his head. “There was no other way to do this, Will. Tommy is at Southwell’s house, right now, searching for evidence. I just phoned him – he’s not out yet. And what better way to see that Rob doesn’t come home early than for me to invite myself to a double date with his new lady love, who happens to be the best friend of _you,_ hm?”

Will clenched his jaw. “You made Alice _bait_?!”

“ _No._ She decided to date this bloke before either I, or Tommy, or anyone, knew about the Southwell-connection, didn’t she? The Southwell-connection, that we’re still not absolutely sure about, by the way. As of now there is nothing that would incriminate him. So, in light of recent events, don’t you think _this_ is not only the most prudent but also the safest possible solution for Alice? In a public place, with us, keeping an eye on her?”

“She needs to know,” Will insisted.

Kit snorted. “Yeah? And how well will _that_ go down, do you think? She’s still _pining_ for you, for Heaven’s sake. And now you’re trying to tell her that the guy she’s dating right now, the one that might finally get her over this stupid _crush_ on you is a serial-poisoner of girls. Sounds a little tacky. At best.”

Will swallowed. The logic of Kit’s statement didn’t escape him, despite the dread in his stomach. “So we’ll leave her defenceless? At his mercy?”

“ _God_ , you’re pessimistic. No, of course not. We’ll look after her. Nothing will happen. As long as you, William, play along and don’t do anything hasty.” Kit tilted his head. “Deal?”

Will swallowed. Kit was right. At the moment there wasn’t a safer place for Alice in Cambridge than inside this pub with Kit and Will’s watchful eyes on her.

“Fine. I’m in.”

Kit gave him a small smile. “We shouldn’t miss Southwell’s little performance, then. Been out here too long, anyway.” He stepped away from Will, but then something seemed to occur to him, and he stopped in his tracks.

“They’re going to think we had a shag,” he stated, lifting one eyebrow.

“I told them I needed to pee,” Will objected.

Kit grinned. “They’re still going to think we had a shag.” He bit his lip in a _very_ inviting way. “We should prove them right, don’t you think?”

Will felt his breath quicken, and he _hated_ that Kit had this effect on him just by saying the word _shag._

“There’s no time, Kit. Also, just as a quick reminder – we’re in _public_.”

“Indeed,” Kit said, and then he had pushed Will against the wall again, back-first, hands in his hair, bending his head back ever so slightly. His eyes sparkled devilishly. “I’ll just have to snog you into oblivion in under a minute, then, put a little haze in your eye, a few marks on your neck, and leave you high and dry.”  
“Oh, _shit,_ ” Will breathed, when Kit’s mouth descended on his lips, and his fingers twisted into his soft, blond hair, helplessly. “Don’t you think you’re taking your method acting a little too seriously?” he managed between kisses; and Kit’s eyes gleamed.

“Not at all, William. Not at all.”


	8. On Christopher Marlowe's Secret Service

„I still can’t believe you can _sing_ like that!” Alice said, for the about twelfth time in the past hour. She was quite drunk and the big heart eyes she was giving Rob – once endearing to Will – now gave him terrible anxiety. The fact that Rob was accompanying them on their way back to Queens’, because his cottage was situated right behind the college, and Will therefore had to keep his act together in front of the both of them for another torturous 20 minutes did very little to help things.

“You should hear my Mum, Allie. She’s so much better than I am,” Rob gave back.

“ _Allie?_ ” Will mouthed in Kit’s direction, irritated, and Kit looked like he could hardly hold the laughter in.

“Can she sing _Meat Loaf_ , too?”

“No, but she can sing Mariah Carey. It’s very impressive.”  
“Oh, wow,” Alice said, snuggling up to Rob, who draped his arm around her waist and pulled her in, against his side, just before they _finally_ crossed the Cam.

“We need to take a right here,” Will reminded everybody, because he truly couldn’t tell whether Alice, in her inebriated enthusiasm, actually remembered.

“Oh,” she made, as if surprised. “Already?”

Will gave Kit a look, but he was distracted, staring at the display of his phone and typing something with lightning-fast fingers, so Will cleared his throat and turned to Rob instead.

“Where do you live, anyway, Rob? Alice only told me something about a beautiful cottage and a _lot_ of roses.”

Rob smiled. “Just a ten-minute-walk from here, close to Newnham College. Wordsworth Grove.”

Kit and Will both snorted, almost in synchronicity, and Rob looked between them, blinking confusion. Will shook his head. “Sorry…just – bit of an inside joke. He,” Will gestured towards Kit, who was still engrossed in his phone, “stole my Wilde-essay last week, the bastard, and now I have to write about Wordsworth, whom I hate with a burning passion.”

Rob’s smile returned. “I see. Little bit of a friendly rivalry going on between you two poets, huh?”

“Who said anything about _friendly_?” Kit retorted, drily, slipping his phone back into his pocket, and Rob looked taken aback, the irony clearly having flown over his head, before Alice distracted him.

“Your cottage is _a dream._ We could visit. It’s not too late,” she said, her voice taking on a suggestive tone, and Will felt his stomach drop. Before he could say anything along the lines of _are you sure this is a good idea?_ Rob had answered instead of him.

“You’re welcome any day of the week, Allie, _any_ day. But I have to be honest – I’m completely knackered, and in the interest of everybody who has to be around me tomorrow, I’ll have to say goodbye and go to bed now.”

Alice looked disappointed, but she nodded; and when Rob smiled at her, blindingly, the disappointment slowly disappeared from her eyes.

“Let’s give the heterosexuals a little space,” Kit murmured, and tugged at Will’s jacket, bringing some distance between them and Rob and Alice, just before Rob leaned in to kiss her goodnight. Will averted his eyes the moment Rob’s lips touched Alice’s and looked at Kit instead – who _hadn’t_ looked away from them, a blatantly interested expression on his face.

“He knows what he’s doing,” he commented, appreciatively.

“He overdosed three innocent girls on heroin, and Alice could be next,” Will reminded him in a whisper, sharply.

“Yes,” Kit said, and his eyes moved away from Rob snogging Alice, and back to Will at a languid pace. “Doesn’t stop him from being a good kisser.”

“You’re really not very helpful.”

“Tommy would like to differ.”  


“He found something?”

“No,” Kit said, disappointment colouring his voice. “Nothing concrete. But he wasn’t caught, thanks to us, and your friend is not going home with Southwell tonight, either, so I’d count that as a win.”

“We’ll just have to make sure it stays that way,” Will said. “How long, were you saying, did it take for Emily, Audrey and Lizzy to be poisoned after they met him at Tommy’s?”

“Exactly a week,” Kit gave back. “Alice should be good until Friday.” His eyes wandered back to the girl in question. “She’s _definitely_ going to shag him before that, though.”

“ _Jesus,_ Kit, what are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” Kit said. “She’s going to do what she’s going to do and unless you put a K9 in front of her door, you won’t stop her.”

“Please tell me that isn’t all you’ve got?”

“We’ll try to find solid evidence against Southwell as soon as possible. Tommy planted a few very clever devices in his house, and he has also downloaded mails, social media profiles and everything of interest off of Southwell’s computer; so, we have a few things to go through.”

“How does Tommy know how to do that?” Will asked, incredulous. “I thought he studied law?”

“Indeed. A chimpanzee would best Tommy when it comes to technology. Alastair, on the other hand, is a computer _wizard_. He prepared everything, idiotproof. Tommy only needed to put cameras in places and stick a USB in Southwell’s computer, as far as he told me.”

“MI6 should hire you lot.”

“Who tells you they haven’t asked?” Kit said, grinning. He nodded in Alice and Rob’s direction. “They’re done.”

Will looked back up just in time to wave Rob goodbye, managing a small smile; before he moved up to a very dazed-looking Alice, who seemed like she was only slowly coming back to earth from space.

“Let’s get inside,” he said, offering her his arm, and Alice took it. The sheer joy on her face made Will hate himself a little. He couldn’t be happy for her, but he also couldn’t tell her why; and thus he had to play along and hope she didn’t notice anything, while he and Kit dug through her potential-new-boyfriend’s private life, which he _also_ couldn’t tell her about. Even though he probably really, really should.

_Conscience does, indeed, make cowards of us all._

_Fuck._

***

 

 

The door to Alice’s room fell shut behind them, and Will started massaging his temple with his index and middle finger, the precursors of a headache making themselves known.

“I don’t say this often, but I could really use a drink.”

Kit smiled. “Lucky for us both, I’m an aspiring alcoholic. Come on.”

He signified Will to follow him with a warm, lithe touch to his arm, and they made it to Kit’s room in companionable silence. Kit poured them both a glass of whisky whose name completely eluded Will, and Will sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, and downed the glass in one go.

“There are two perfectly serviceable beds for you to sit on, just for your information,” Kit said, gracefully sliding down right next to Will, until they sat almost in the same position, legs lightly touching.

“I feel like shit.”

“That would explain the floor,” Kit gave back.

“I know that lying to her is probably the best way to handle this, but I still feel like I’m dragging her into something horrible. I, as her best friend, have a responsibility to tell her she might be in danger, and I’m not doing it.”

“She wouldn’t listen to you, if you told her.”

“I know,” Will said, contemplating his empty glass. “It still feels like a breach of trust.”

“I told you, you wouldn’t like what I was about to tell you.”

Will tilted his head to look at Kit and found something almost apologetic in his eyes.

“I’m glad you did, though. Tell me. Eventually.”

Kit looked away, directing his eyes towards the ceiling.

A small pause ensued.

“You were wrong, William,” Kit finally said. “In saying you don’t know me well.”

Will looked down at the whisky glass in his hands, twisting it around, so he would stop staring at Kit. The glass was harsh crystal, patterned with polished shapes that broke the light, obscuring a clear look through it. Beautiful and ever impenetrable.

“I’ve known you for all of four days, Kit,” he gave back.

“Oh, but time is not of crucial value, William. Some people live with their spouse for fifty years and they never get to know them well, and others spend one night in somebody’s presence and they understand them completely, down to the very essence of what lies beneath their heart.” Kit paused. “I don’t believe in God or destiny, or _anything_ , as a matter of fact. But I’m willing to admit that sometimes it feels like the circumstances of certain encounters are taken out of our hands. Like our very will to act – or not to act – is perfectly overruled by something some people might call fate.”

Will looked up, then, _had_ to, and there was Kit, looking back, his eyes nothing like the crystal glass Will had been holding, blue and open. He was smiling, on the edge of mischief. “Though, I have to admit – I did absolutely stalk you, for about two months.”

An incredulous laugh bubbled over Will’s lips. “What?”

“I saw you scribble some lines down in your old-fashioned paper-book in the first course we had together, and I was intrigued. Googled what I remembered about a week later, stumbled upon your blog, read it in one sitting; and when I figured out that you hated my guts, it just made me want to get to know you _more._ Call me arrogant, but I’m too charming, talented and rich for people to hate me, as a general rule; and your attitude rather fascinated me. I made sure you got a taste of _my_ poetry in turn, _and_ of the fact that I casually read Oscar Wilde on study breaks; then I invited Richard to Tommy’s party, because I knew Alice would bring you along, and waited for my opportunity to arise.”

Kit looked rather pleased with himself, and Will just shook his head at him. “You could have just talked to me, like a normal person, you know?”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in _that,_ William?”

Will had to laugh, again. “I would call you out on it, but since I was quite obsessed with you as well, I’m inclined to declare that a draw. ”  
“Tell me more,” Kit said, emptying his whisky, a sly grin on his infuriatingly beautiful face.

“I was trying to figure out why I hated you so much, ever since the semester started. First, I thought it was just because you were insufferable; then, because you were insufferable, had a fan-club and wrote wonderful poetry; and _then_ because you were insufferable but also an interesting person I’d have loved to talk to, but wouldn’t, because you were insufferable.”

Kit snorted. “It all comes down to me being insufferable, it seems.” He put his glass down and moved his face closer to Will’s. “So how did we end up here?”

“You turned out less insufferable for a moment. I think. I was high at the time, so I’m not entirely sure.”

“You must have been mistaken,” Kit said, utterly soft, and his lips found Will’s in a kiss that was almost tender – save for the small bite to Will’s lower lip Kit ended it on.

“Just – one more thing. What was that about you stealing the Wilde-essay from me?” Will murmured against Kit’s lips. Kit’s hand had already made its way over to the inside of Will’s thigh, expeditiously, and Will knew that he had to use the last clear moments his lust-fogged brain would allow him tonight to ask this very important question.

Kit chuckled. “That was me being insufferable.”  


“ _God,_ I hate you.”

Kit’s one hand found his cock, right then, half-hard in Will’s jeans, while his other traced the side of Will’s face, thumb gliding over his lips, until Will opened them and gently bit down on it.

“I reckon you don’t want to finish what we started a few hours ago, then?” Kit asked, mockingly.  


Will let go of Kit’s thumb and let his head sink back against the wall, while Kit traced the outline of his Adam’s apple with his finger, raising his eyebrows at him. 

“Oh, _fuck_. Desperately,” Will said, finally, a foregone surrender; and a moment later Kit was hauling him up, against the wall, until they both stood, kissing him, one hand still at his neck, the other making quick and efficient work of his belt; and Will gasped into his mouth, a wildfire in his stomach, hands gliding under Kit’s shirt to find skin, pressing the slim frame of his torso against him.

Then, Kit’s lips left his. There was something intense in his eyes, like he was about to burst through the ceiling or jump on a stage in front of thousands of spectators to deliver the performance of a lifetime; and it made Will feel lightheaded with anticipation. His belt fell to the ground like an afterthought and Kit started opening buttons. “I think I’m going to fuck you, William,” he said, with a voice like dark liquor. “Do you want that?”

“Yes, God, please,” Will responded, almost beyond words, and Kit smiled, smiled into the next kiss, his hand finding Will’s cock through his underpants, now utterly hard, stroking, his tongue a hot, demanding presence in Will’s mouth –

And then the door to Kit’s room was ripped open, and somebody said “Oh, _Christ,_ I _knocked_.”

Will scrambled to get away from Kit, but Kit didn’t let him, merely removed his hand from Will’s cock, buttoned his jeans back up, and finished their kiss with a longing swipe of his tongue against Will’s lower lip, before he turned around, seemingly completely untouched by the sudden intrusion, and tilted his head at Thomas Walsingham, who was standing in the middle of the room, eyes reflexively shut.

“Didn’t hear you, terribly sorry,” Kit said, and Thomas opened his eyes again, only to immediately roll them at Kit. A moment later he spotted Will by the wall, and Will nodded at him, blush creeping up his neck. This was becoming a worryingly consistent occurrence.

“Evening, Thomas.”

“Evening, William. Can I borrow Kit for a moment?”

“No need to,” Kit said. “He knows. We staged the distraction manoeuvre together.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “I thought you weren’t going to tell him.”

  
“I wasn’t. Originally. William here just happens to be rather observant.”

  
Thomas looked at Will with a sudden gleam of interest and a miniscule touch of appreciation in his eyes. “You mean to say he figured your ploy out?”

“Well, let’s not go quite this far.”

Thomas was grinning now. “He absolutely did, didn’t he?” He stretched his hand out, towards Will, and Will shook it, still a little red-faced and embarrassed. “Call me Tommy. And welcome to the club.”

“Oh. Hi. Uh. Call me Will. What…what club?”

“ _Once_ ,” Kit said, glaring at Tommy. “You found me out _once_. Don’t break your neck sucking your own cock right away.”

“What did you do?”, Will asked, intrigued.

“Found out that Christopher here has a secret ABBA playlist. That he denied possessing. For months. He was good, but in the end, I found the key piece of evidence.”

“You hired Alastair to hack my external hard drive.”  
“Because I _knew_ it was there, and you were watching that thing with eagle eyes. It was _suspicious._ ”

Will looked back and forth between the both of them, and then he couldn’t hold his laughter in any more. “I’m sorry, but this is _hilarious._ ”

“Wonderful. I’m so happy you’re having a good time,” Kit said, but the tugging at the corners of his mouth undermined the perfectly sleeked sarcasm in his voice a little bit.

He nodded towards the foreign silver MacBook that had been thrown on his bed – by Tommy, as it seemed, when he’d entered the room.

“Is it on there?”

  
Tommy nodded. “Alastair’s tech voodoo worked like…well, voodoo. I have Southwell’s complete desktop on there, _and_ the feed from the cameras in his house. We can watch everything he does, online and offline. Live.”

Will swallowed. It only now dawned on him what a massive breach of Rob Southwell’s privacy they had really set up here. This was nothing short of a spy operation. But then, if Southwell really was the attacker, this was probably the only way to find out.

“I searched his house – already told you that nothing particularly relevant came up, _but_ …I did find something at least _noteworthy_. Somebody wrote a bunch of letters to Southwell, all with pressed flowers inside. Subscribed only with _E._ I skimmed through them - seems to be a romantic connection.”

“Did you take photos?” Kit asked.

“They’re on my phone.”

Kit nodded. “Good. Maybe they have something to do with something, you never know. Better to read them.”

  
“I can do that,” Will offered, and Tommy gave Kit a questioning look.

“He can do that,” Kit said, simply, opening Tommy’s laptop; and Tommy handed Will his phone without further ado.

“We’re going to go through his private messages first, then through his mails, then through his social media. Everything is relevant, but _especially_ the past five weeks.” Kit looked at them.

“Let’s get to work, boys.”


End file.
